Iridial’s gown lay on the floor in a heap where she had cast it last night, the blue ribbons crumpled.

She gathered the gown up and, smoothing out its folds, laid it on the bed. In the daylight it seemed to have lost its glamour, like the bruised petals of a flower that had faded in the night.

She dressed and came slowly, uncertainly, down the stairs, dreading to hear his voice suddenly shouting at her in anger.

I am old enough to make my own decisions. And I will not be kept a prisoner in my own room.

But his office was locked.

She peeped into the dining room and saw that the breakfast Cook had set out had hardly been touched; the qaffë had gone cold in the pot. Even as she stood gazing down at the congealing mess of scrambled eggs, wondering if the empty feeling in the pit of her stomach was hunger, Cook came in.

‘Heaven’s sakes, why do I bother preparing food if neither of you is going to eat it?’ She began to pile dishes on to her tray, muttering to herself. Orial helped her.

‘Where is my father?’ she asked.

‘Out. Went out. Gone to visit some rich old so-and-so with more money than sense, like as not.’

If Jerame could go out, then so could she. Orial took her cape from the hook and set out for the Crescent.

The aria came to a sudden halt in mid-phrase. Orial looked up and saw that Khassian was staring at his hands. He seemed to have forgotten she was there.

‘Illustre?’

He started.

‘I’m sorry. We’ll… take a few minutes’ rest…’

‘I – I wondered if you could give me some advice.’

‘Musical advice?’

Maybe it was not the best moment to mention the matter.

‘I compose too. A little –’ she added hastily. ‘I’ve never had any guidance. I know our style in Sulien must seem somewhat… provincial. But –’

‘Show me,’ he said tersely.

She took the folded manuscript paper from her pocket and smoothed it out on the table in front of him: ‘Moon Eyes and Silver Hare.’ She was ashamed to see how untidy it looked, how the notes which had excited her so much as she spun them together looked so dull on paper.

He sat down to study them. His maimed hand twitched impatiently under the concealing drifts of lace.

‘Well?’ she said quietly.

‘It’s – it’s –’ He seemed to be casting around for words. ‘It’s a pretty tune. It has a – a certain naive charm.’

His hesitation told her that he did not really regard it as worthy of his attention.

‘If I had my cithara I would play it to you. It’s based on an old Sulien tale. This part – the leaping figure – is the hare.’