‘Then why me?’

‘Because you have a reputation of being made of stone. “Determinedly unflappable” I believe was the phrase used. You won’t be swayed by what you find in Drekenford.’

‘I supposed I should be flattered.’

‘But you’re not, and that’s the point.’ The chief paused, and then appeared to reach some kind of decision. ‘There was something else. A suggestion, little more than a hint, that the King himself was aware of a certain… talent of yours. Any idea what that might be?’

I sat very still under his gaze. ‘No, sir, no more than you.’

‘Well then, there’s a horse waiting for you at the station; cheerless old thing, I’m sure you’ll get on.’ The chief placed a heavy purse on the table. ‘For eggs, and such.’

15th October 1721

Alexsander found my note, blocking out the dawn sun as it was. He read the scant details and then swore many times so I would remember. What I also remembered was the resignation in his tone, which was already moving towards pragmatic acceptance.

That was the way of our relationship. The way of the vast majority of brotherly and sisterly relationships that crossed sunrise and sunset in the Kingdom of Reikova. We had some power to make our night- or day-brothers aware of something specific; a power often exercised through saying a thing repeatedly, perhaps with the aid of a mirror, or the written word – as I had chosen that day. But total certainty was impossible. An obstinate day-brother could do their utmost to ignore the night before, or see a note and choose not to read it. In that sense there was some degree of control – or the illusion of control – in what we remembered of each other. It was possible, for instance, to be the prying sort. I might know much of what my day-brother did with his sunlit hours. Instead, I had long ago decided his doings were tedious at best, distasteful at worst. I preferred to ignore them as best I could. I imagined he felt the same way of my nightly endeavours. But as with all Reikovan citizens who made something of their lives, who avoided the clutches of St Leonars prison and the like, we lived in a peaceful enough accord with each other. An accord that, on occasion, relied on wilful ignorance.

To that end, by the time the day began proper Alexsander was already making plans for our departure.

He visited a number of drinking establishments. A drink, a conversation, a handshake in each, and his month’s plans were undone. The innkeepers looked unnervingly similar, smiling with red cheeks and understanding. He crossed the city in a haphazard way, stopping finally at a well-to-do house where he had lunch with a small group I took to be his friends by the way they laughed easily with each other.

There he spent the afternoon. If I was mentioned, or the reason for his leaving, it was too brief to be noteworthy. Instead, the name Clarissa was often invoked and brought forth a mix of embarrassment and pride in him, even as it immediately set him to shaking his head. Unconscious gestures were typically the most pronounced when I recalled his days. No, he would miss Clarissa, whoever the harlot was. He could not hide it from me or his friends, with their gibes and jests. At least he didn’t blame me.