‘Tomorrow, wait for the end of Asr, the call to afternoon prayer, then come here and knock. Don’t let anyone see you. Don’t be late. I won’t wait around.’ She turned away.

‘Wait, Miss … is it Zahrah?’ She nodded curtly. ‘Listen, I’m not going to cause any trouble, I promise. I’m just a writer who wants to talk to your –’ he hesitated ‘– grandfather? Uncle?’

The woman snorted and held open the gate. ‘We’re not related. Remember, be here, right after the call.’

Sam stepped through, and turned, meaning to apologize again, only to find himself facing a locked door. From this side, it blended almost imperceptibly with the wall, weathered dust-grey wood, tucked into an alcove. He looked up and found himself standing on a narrow, trash-strewn walkway below the Bab al-Bahr. Stone steps disappeared down into the darkness, hugging the curve of the old fortifications. He’d never seen them marked on any map.

An escape route, he realized. But for who?

That night, he wrote feverishly, trying to remember every sensation, every smell and sound of Dar Portuna. He wrote about the woman – Zahrah – and about the exquisite villa with its gentle decay. He wrote about the strange figure at the heart of it all, who had drawn him there.

He used the final piece of the writing paper, and had to scrabble about under the bed for the old, half-typed sheets he had discarded from the Hermes. First, he wrote on their backs. Then, when he ran out of space, he wrote around the letters that were already there, until they merged, ink on ink, new story on old, becoming something that was both, and neither. Like the city, he thought.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, but when he awoke it was with ink-stained fingers and a page beneath his face, every inch covered with writing.

He didn’t read it – worried it wouldn’t make sense in daylight – only stacked it with the others. The pile was growing now. He laid a hand on top of them. As long as he could keep going, he was sure those pages could become something. A new start, perhaps.

There was now only one sheet of paper that remained almost blank. He lifted out the strange pencil-written note. Why hadn’t he mentioned it to Langham?

A,

I am sorry.

One day, I hope you’ll understand.

He sat back, uneasy. What did it mean, and why had it never been sent? Why had it remained, hidden in the writing case, when it was obviously so important?

I was there, the night it happened. I saw him. I saw them both.