Francesca drained the bulbed glass and licked at her lips as she set it down, the simple gesture symbolically marking the end of the meal. “Good wine. I enjoyed that.”

“Well, with the Tairngire vintages, at least you know it’s grown on soil that isn’t completely corrupted by pollution. Not bad. Could have done with a little extra Cabernet Franc, though." The waiter was placing the silver coffee service on the table and Geraint said. "Large Calvados for me, and-Cointreau?”

Francesca smiled. “You remember little details, don’t you?"

A trace of a grin played around the corners of his mouth as piano music drifted across the emptying room. He was barely aware what he was doing as he glanced idly at a northern Lord making a fool of himself with a heavily made-up Asian girl at a table opposite. Francesca noticed, though, and her hand gripped the wrist of his left hand, stopping him rubbing at his temple.

"Geraint." Her voice had just an edge of urgency in it. “I’ve seen that before."

He drew back from her, suddenly conscious of his action, nervous now and not wanting to hear what she was going to say.

“What’s happening? What is it?" She knew about his rare moments of Sight. He’d told her about his ancestry and relatives, the cousins with temporal lobe epilepsy, the family curse. So she knew what that dull throb in the left side of his brain might mean, and she had her own nightmares. He hadn’t wanted the evening to come to this, and he shook away her query.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Too many nights up late among the smoke-filled rooms of the House of Nobles." He distracted her attention with anecdotes of their lordships' scandals and misbehaviors. The fool with the bored girl across the room provided a good starting point. Between them, they unconsciously agreed to a false meeting ground of laughter over inconsequentialities.