Instead, I admired the furnishings. The Orangery, in keeping with its namesake, was a light and airy space. Windows placed cunningly in the high ceiling gave a great deal of light. Potted citrus trees flourished, under obvious attention, even in the autumn. Not only did they give a marvellous aroma to the place but their colour was wonderfully understated when embraced as the centre piece of an aesthetic. Too often in the capital, whole rooms were garishly coloured orange, yellow, purple, or gold. Such rooms were dominated by heavy dark woods, ornate sideboards of the most oppressive kinds. Here, light wood prevailed. It was so out of character for this dark and dingy Drekenford. My mood was lightened just sitting there.

When Rebecca arrived I surprised us both by embracing her enthusiastically. None of the readers appeared to notice.

‘Why haven’t you brought me here before!’ I said, pulling out her chair for her.

‘Not so long ago you were busy at midday.’

I sat with an oof. ‘How easily you wound me. Can a man not enjoy his unemployment?’

‘You seem cheery enough. But,’ she said, narrowing her eyes, ‘it’s not wine.’

‘I have had an encouraging morning. The sun is shining. My companion has arrived.’

‘Promise you won’t break out in song.’ She picked up her menu.

‘As you know, my dear, I make no promises.’

A waif of a waitress attended our table, and Rebecca ordered before I could manage so much as a how-you-do. We would be having the local Rowslin to drink, and partridge, with a light accompaniment of fruit.

‘They have good Rowslin here,’ Rebecca whispered, as if afraid the secret might spread. ‘Not that swill Marcus gives you.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’ve requested the 1717, since you’re in such a good mood.’

I stilled myself. ‘1717?’

‘Don’t look so aghast, it is not so very expensive.’

‘A good year, was it?’ I managed to say.

‘The last of the good years, if you ask me. They’re too sharp of late. I once drank a 1672, in more refined company, and it was quite exquisite.’

‘Refined company.’

‘Yes, dear. It means—’

The wine arrived. I declined the offer to sample it. As the girl poured my glass I had the urge to dash it to the floor, feign an accident or fit and then order an ale. I did not want to so much as sip a taste of wine from 1717. I stared in horror as Rebecca raised the glass in toast.

‘To the last of good things,’ she said with a smile. I offered something weak in return.

As she drank I could taste nothing but my own bile.

I looked at the ceiling, at the potted trees and their fruit, at the other guests and the staff – anywhere but her. She had dashed my good mood against the side of her ill-fated bottle and found the glass less brittle. Worse still, I knew my night-brother would find such shifting feelings amusing. In a few short hours he would smile condescendingly at himself and understand this to be part of the job: small hopes beset on all sides.