He lived with it, as he lived with a number of things he didn’t like, because there was no alternative. But there was something about the way Rowley’s eyes had widened and his mouth had tensed. Clem wasn’t marvellous at reading faces, but he could tell anger when he saw it. Anger on his behalf, anger over things Clem couldn’t be angry about because he couldn’t take the risk. He’d spent his life carefully not looking into an abyss of rage like the pit of hellfire he’d so often been told awaited pagans, because if he ever really looked, he feared he might be angry forever.
