‘Do you know when she was arrested?’ asked Clariel. She was thinking about where her aunt might be. If Kilp had sent the order for her arrest the night Jaciel and Harven had been killed, then Lemmin might already be in Belisaere, already in a prison hole.

‘No. I suppose I could find out,’ said Bel. ‘But there’s nothing you can do for her anyway, Clariel. I’m sorry you’re stuck here, but there are worse places …’

His voice trailed off as he saw Clariel give him a look similar to the one the chief cook at Hillfair used when confronted by a joint of meat that had become seriously maggot-struck.

‘Please do find out,’ she said coldly. She looked at Mogget and threw down the fish. ‘And tell my grandfather that even if he isn’t going to do anything, I am.’

‘But you can’t do anything,’ called out Bel, to her rapidly retreating back. ‘Look, I’ll ask him, I really will. I’ll be back tomorrow, maybe we can work out something …’

Clariel did not reply. She stalked into the house, went to her room to get The Fury Within and stomped up the stairs to the west roof garden. Unlike the one in her parents’ house in Belisaere, this garden had green plants. Mostly white rowans in large terracotta pots but also some smaller shrubs she didn’t know, with broad green leaves and tiny yellow flowers.

The garden offered a great vista over the river to the hills beyond, only slightly marred in Clariel’s opinion by the roofs and towers of Hillfair when she looked to the north. Ignoring that side, she resolutely dragged the comfortable bench with its blue and silver cushions around to face the south, towards the mist-cloud of the waterfall, opened her book and began to read.

She paid careful attention to the instructions in the tome. It had already helped her a little, and she was determined to learn more. The rage frightened her, and Clariel knew she must bring it under control. The book said it was possible to raise it when she willed, and dismiss it in such a way that she was not left so exhausted. But it was not as simple as just reading how to do it. The book offered techniques, things to practise, ways of thinking. But it would take time, and work, and strength of will.

The sendings brought lunch to Clariel when she did not answer to the repeated gongs or the increasingly broad gestures of her attendant sending. It was composed of one of the fish she had caught, evidently rescued from Mogget. This had been grilled with ginger, pepper and some spice she didn’t know, set atop a salad of grains and greenleaf, accompanied by a lightly sparkling clear wine she had to admit was delicious and refreshing.