Fidelma stopped in her own darkness for a while, watching the lights flash on, strings of lights like precious stones. Was Mary-Margaret intending to make a habit of staying out till late, without saying where she was going or when she was coming back? Fidelma was not particularly worried. Mary-Margaret was an adult now; responsible, up to a point, able to look after herself, to some extent. The accident—the broken head—well, that was a one-off surely; no one could be so careless or unlucky as to incur a second hospital admission within a fortnight or thereabouts. Although it was true, of course, that lightning could strike twice. But not very likely all the same.That Mary-Margaret might have a secret life struck Fidelma as absurd. She was an open book, that girl—concerned solely with God and shopping. And neither of them especially perilous pursuits, in the usual way of things, the foreseeable run of the world. No, the probable explanation was that she had gone off somewhere with the baby she treated like a doll, and would be back in time for the fish cakes that she knew her mother would be cooking.
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