‘How’s your night-brother on the fiddle?’

‘Atrocious.’

‘And what makes you think you’ll be any better as an inspector?’

‘I’ve no plans on joining the King’s constabulary!’ I said. ‘Just helping in whatever small way I’m able.’

‘When I’m not seeing Stefan’s drudgery-filled nights, I sometimes dream of mountains.’

‘Mountains.’

‘And the climbing thereof. If I were to fetch up at the foot of a mountain in a sturdy pair of boots and clutching some kind of polished stick, with obvious intentions, I’d be in less danger than you,’ Marcus said, glancing out over the balcony. ‘At the very least, I would know where to start.’

‘You may be right, you—’

There was a welcome knock at the door. We had reached that stale part of the day when friends risk becoming a chore. I peered into the gloom of Marcus’ rooms. I could just make out someone divesting themselves of a coat and bags. And then, out of the dimness, I saw her calm face, her easy smile.

I shot back in my seat, pulled myself upright, and re-buttoned the top of my shirt. I touched needlessly at my poor excuse for hair and smoothed my eyebrows with a licked finger. There was nothing I could do about the wine on my breath, except perhaps steady my breathing. A task easier said than done.

‘I saw you two pickling yourselves,’ Rebecca said reproachfully, stepping onto the balcony. ‘And decided to join you.’

Marcus carried through one of her canvas bags, which boasted fruits and a little pie each. ‘I hope, my dear, you come bearing sense as well as victuals.’

‘I couldn’t carry enough of either for you, Marcus.’

‘It’s not me that has a need.’

‘Oh?’ She turned to me. Again that smile.

Evidently we were back to an easy rapport. Back to our in-town selves, and how we had been before I stumbled out of the forest behind her house, half-dead and the other half delirious, until she gave me water. Until she… bathed me. Heat rose in my cheeks.

‘He’s blushing,’ she said.

‘That could be the wine,’ Marcus said. ‘Our friend here is drinking himself into, and then out of, a bad idea.’

‘Do you have any other kind, Alexsander?’

‘Not of late. No one does.’ I said this too quietly, too sincerely, and the mood turned.

‘Well, you better tell me then, if you’re going to.’

By way of building up to do so, I told her of Mr Hennig’s banning of my music and of my public use of his establishment. I made my lack of purpose more than clear. And then I said, ‘So, I plan to assist my night-brother.’

‘And not just with his dirty linens and drawers!’ Marcus said, though we both ignored him.

She looked at me for what felt like a long time. ‘Won’t that be dangerous?’ she said eventually.

‘It might be.’

‘And what hope of success do you have?’

‘Hope? More than I have right to. Perhaps more than my night-brother has, in fact.’