Viktor wasn’t surprised to learn Josiri had departed Branghall. But nor did he expect that the departure marked any great change of heart. It was every bit as likely that the erstwhile duke had fled, never to be seen again. Time would tell. A little time out in the world might shake loose his sense of duty. If not? Well, another way would be sought.

But one corner of his heart was quieter than the day before. Malachi’s herald had at last found him. The letter confirmed Kasamor’s death, but also Rosa’s survival. Viktor felt a shadow of guilt for taking more solace than grief from the letter. Better to be thankful for the living than mournful of the dead.

He entered the great hall unannounced. Anastacia stood at the eastern window, one hand pressed against the glass. Little more than drifting mist from the waist down, she stared out across the grounds. Her shoulders slumped like those of a puppet resting on its strings – a portrait of loss and longing so perfect and private that Viktor felt guilty for standing witness.

Suppressing a new frisson of wariness – kin to that he’d felt on their first meeting, and the stronger for it having been proved correct – he cleared his throat.

Anastacia’s fingers slipped from the window. Her entire being ravelled back together like cotton about a spindle. The skirts of a panelled ivory dress flowed into place.

“Josiri’s not here, so you can leave me in peace.” The tone belied the words, and pleaded for him to stay.

“I’d hoped to speak with you.”

“I’m told it’s healthy to have aspirations.”

“Then I’ll live for ever, for I aspire to so many things.”

She gave a wintery laugh. “You may not find immortality to your liking.”

“A chance worth taking. Or so I’m told.” Viktor looped his hands behind his back and strode closer. “I confess I know almost nothing about you.”

“I’m sure the archimandrite could weary your ears with details.”

“Just as I’m sure none of them would be true.”

She shrugged. “I imagine so. Dear Arzro’s predecessor was twice the man he is.”

“Emil Karkosa? I remember him well.” Still some paces away, Viktor took a seat. His eyes lingered on the cluster of empty wine bottles. “Every Lumendas without fail I’d sit in a pew no further from the pulpit than I sit from you now, and I’d listen to Karkosa preach. He’d a faith to shatter mountains in those days. But he was charitable with it. Not something one could say of Makrov.”

Of course, Viktor had stopped going to church after his shadow’s awakening and his mother’s death – and for two very different reasons. But the rest of the tale was true enough.

“This is fascinating,” said Anastacia. “But on balance, I prefer the prospect of loneliness to hearing about your blissful childhood.”