At the backdoor I heard the rumble of the common room, which was punctured by a drunken cackle. Drekenford was starting early, or so I thought. But when I stepped out into a bright but not warm day I found the sun higher than I expected. It had been a difficult few days. And what did I have to be up early for?

I turned away from the stable and tried not to think of Tabitha and her grisly fate. I wandered along busy streets and empty alleyways, paying no heed to where I was going or to what end. Whatever day it was, it was not market day.

This was the first time, that I could recall in our decades together, when Christophor’s work had prohibited my own. It made me think: how else had I been affected? What positions or opportunities had been denied to me because of him? Companies, orchestras, quartets that had turned me down – and there had been a fair number of those – had always done so on reasonable grounds, or so they said. But as I remembered those conversations, how the directors shook their heads with pursed lips and a certain look in their eye – was that my night-brother lurking there?

Not for the first time I felt foolish. I thought, after all these years, I understood the way of things and how people navigated this world. But in truth I was as ignorant and as naive as a silk merchant’s favourite daughter.

What to do? My feet decided for me, and they decided on something a merchant’s daughter could not do: get drunk in the middle of the day.

I climbed the steps to Marcus’ rooms. He was home, though not in a full state of dress. He opened the door and frowned.

‘If you’re looking for the workhouse you need to follow the river’s flow to the edge of town. Big place, it is.’

‘So you’ve heard?’ I said.

‘Not so much as a mouse farts without me hearing it in this town.’

‘What’s that you’re drinking?’

He made a show of surprise, as if I’d magicked the glass into his hand. ‘This? This is for thinning my paints.’

‘Let me in, you rascal, before I ruin your chances of ever selling another painting.’

The slim painter admitted me entrance with an exaggerated bow. ‘A little notoriety wouldn’t hurt,’ he said. He fetched me a glass and a shirt for his back. I told him not to on my account, but apparently it was the painting that kept him warm on such days – not the wine.

We took to his balcony and he brought cushions for the chairs. For some time we watched the toing and froing of the upstanding citizens of Drekenford. It was, in its way, fascinating. Men and women and children all hurrying along, and managing to do so somehow despite their personal burdens. For many those burdens were all too evident in the hunch of their shoulders, or cut of their clothes, or way their gaze wouldn’t sit still. Perhaps it was my mood, but looking down on them all I could believe they had the direst of secrets, every one.