“That was always the first detail — the thin crimson thread running from her left nostril to her upper lip, vivid against skin the colour of temple marble. Her hair was fire — not red, not auburn, fire — and behind her head the light blazed in a halo so bright it burned the edges of his vision to white. She reached for him. Her fingers were cold porcelain, and when they touched his cheek he felt the blood — warm, wet, viscous — transfer from her skin to his. She traced his jawline with the deliberate care of a sculptor working clay, and he could not move, could not breathe, could only stare at the crimson line bisecting her face and wonder: why is she bleeding?”