How was this the man who’d spirited her from the crest of Gallows Hill, who’d dragged a chaplain to marry her under threat in a lightless stone house, miles from anywhere? How was she the same Emmat Bird to allow it? And not merely to allow it, but to hold him to her, to see in him this…this long-harboured emptiness, and to want to fill it. It flew in the face of reason, but some immaterial voice suggested if she were to place her own empty spaces against his, she would find the void made whole.
