“You’re wearing lavender.” The change of topic threw her. “I am.” The words came out more like a question, as though she did not have eyes in her head and a grasp of the color spectrum. “Yesterday was amethyst. The day before, a grey like heather in winter.” She went cold. “I like purple.” He shook his head, his eyes dark with secrets. She knew it, because hers held the same. “No, I don’t think so.” She didn’t want to discuss it. Not then. Not as they stood there with what seemed like half the women in London watching. She didn’t want to discuss it. Ever. And she hated him for pointing out her
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