There was also, she saw, a small, round hole, charred and blackened—a cigarette burn among the fibres. “Then go,” she said, turning round to Kit, whose head jerked back, his eyebrows contracted. His grip softened. “I can’t go back without you,” he said. “You’re the bride. Wives aren’t supposed to behave like this.” “No,” she confirmed, feeling a warmth in her cheeks. “Neither are husbands.” “What do you mean?” he asked, moving closer, his voice lowered so Madeleine could not hear them. “You lied to me, Kit,” she said, and there was a power in those words, spoken aloud, finally, as piquant as
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