‘They must feel safe in your hands.’

‘They aren’t. I don’t keep things safe. I used to. Perhaps. I can’t keep all the plates spinning. I drop some.’

Their hands collided across the soft expanse of Wolsey’s stomach. Smith’s hand swept right over Joan’s and she kept that hand still, accepting, the tips of her fingers gently playing with the smallest swirls of the animal’s fur.

A moment later, Smith’s hand swept back again and she looked at the top of his head as the hand passed over hers, delighting enormously that he didn’t look up and meet her gaze with something terrible and shattering like a smile.

‘Well, that is always the risk, if you’re a plate, isn’t it?’ she whispered, letting her fingers catch his cuff, but keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the fine hairs at the back of his neck. ‘If you want to be spun, then you must accept the possibility of being broken.’