I shook the hand of a lady unknown to me. Her palm was supple and pliant to the touch, her fingers were slender and inviting, drawing me into a comfort I did not trust. Her hand was warm, and lay within mine with such exactness it seemed fashioned for me. Her nails were manicured with studied care, gleaming like pearls newly polished. Her grasp, however, was faint—almost without life—leaving me to bear the weight of our handshake, and in so doing, awakening within me, an natural inclination to protect and cherish. I turned her hand and was met with a deep, rich hue, dark as fine chocolate, warmed by nature’s favour. My eyes traced the gentle folds of skin about her joints, the slightly darker grace of her knuckles. There was in it such refinement, such unspoiled elegance, that I lingered longer than I meant to. It was then I observed the cause of my undoing. Upon her ring finger sat a silver band, adorned with a diamond of immoderate size—a sight so tasteless it near provoked my laughter. I could scarce believe my eyes had been so easily deceived. With measured disgust, I withdrew my hand, my admiration undone by that single, shining truth.