He fed the flames with every photograph, every drawing, every silken scrap of stolen clothing. Each one blazed brightly then blackened, turning to ash. He tossed the empty box on and waited for the flames to lick possessively around it, scarlet arms holding tight.

As a child, he’d heard an uncle, stationed with the Army in India, describe to a suitably horrified drawing room how he’d seen a widow burned alive beside her husband’s corpse, his possessions heaped around them, hemming her in. Greedy flames and tortured screams haunted his dreams for weeks.

Now he knew why she’d done it.

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