The Emperor reads no mystic certainties of any kind in the late-night flames, sitting at the woman’s feet, one hand touching her instep and the jewelled slipper. He says, ‘Never leave me.’ ‘Wherever would I go?’ she murmurs after a moment, trying to keep the tone light and just failing. He looks up. ‘Never leave me,’ he says again, the grey eyes on hers this time. He can do this to her, take breath from chest and throat. A constriction of great need. After all these years. ‘Not in life,’ she replies.
