‘In fact, you have a visitor in that respect,’ continued Harven. ‘A Captain Gullwing or some such, of the Royal Guard. Apparently she has to talk to you before you can see the King tomorrow. I trust you are up to receiving her?’

‘Yes,’ said Clariel eagerly. ‘And … I think her name is Gullaine.’

‘Yes, that’s right, Gullaine,’ said Harven. ‘Strange-looking woman. Now you’re sure you are feeling well enough … I mean now, and for tomorrow.’

‘Yes,’ said Clariel.

Harven fidgeted with his belt, gazed down at his shoes, looked up, edged two steps closer and then finally looked at Clariel.

‘I know you feel that this visit is just for your mother,’ he said. ‘But I really do think it will help you, Clarrie. I do … I do want you to be happy, you know.’

‘I know,’ said Clariel. He did want her to be happy. Provided her happiness didn’t conflict with Jaciel’s work, or wasn’t too difficult to achieve.

‘Also,’ continued Harven. ‘Your mother, last night … telling you about Teriel … I’m sure it was a shock. She still feels very strongly about the injustice done to her by her father and the family. Anyway, best not to bring it up with her. Or with anyone. Private family business, you know.’

‘I won’t talk about it,’ said Clariel. She was still coming to terms with the whole idea of her mother killing anyone, let alone her own brother or – if she was to be believed – some creature that had assumed her brother’s shape. And ‘in a rage’ was another eye-opener. Her mother the berserk. An inheritance which she had passed on to her daughter without explanation or help.

‘Good, good,’ said Harven.

‘How is Mother?’ asked Clariel. ‘Did she already come to see me while I was unconscious?’

‘She is very busy,’ said Harven quickly. ‘She would come up, but there is a process, a type of annealing, very delicate work she began this morning, that cannot be interrupted …’

He stopped talking, perhaps aware that he was trying to excuse the inexcusable, before bending down to kiss Clariel on the top of her head, something he hadn’t done for quite a few years. Her eyes glistened as he straightened up and retreated, pausing to offer a tentative wave at the door. She remembered when her father’s kisses on her head had been unalloyed with her resentment of his weakness, the weakness that always put his daughter last. But that was many years gone, when she was just a little girl and her father was a big, strong refuge from the world at large. She had known for years he was a flimsy shelter at best, that she could not rely on him for anything important.

It still hurt, when she remembered what he had once been to her, however false that was.