‘You seem undecided here as to the correct way to notate the rhythm of the accompaniment figure. Was it de-da-de-de? Or de-da-de-de? You have to be precise. And look at this part-writing. Doubled notes…’

‘Grammatical errors. I’ll correct them.’

‘Mm.’ He appeared bored with it already. ‘You’ve much to learn.’

His curtness shocked her into silence; a sigh escaped her lips, so soft it was hardly audible. It was all she could permit herself; she was, after all, only an untutored girl – and he was the Illustre Khassian. She should be grateful for his advice…

Why, then, was it that she felt as if his criticism had blighted her creation, as if a lethal breath of frost had shrivelled the life from the simple song?

Khassian crossed the broad sweep of lawns that curved down from the Crescent, making for the shade of the great cedars. A worn path led to a verdant walk beyond, past moss-encrusted statues and crumbling urns, tumbled with cascades of ivy.

As he walked, scuffing up cedar needles from the soft carpet underfoot, notes came floating into his head, light as soap bubbles. He ignored them.

They would not be ignored.

Damn it, why were they so persistent? It was a child’s tune, a simple melody, absurdly simple, plaguing his memory.

Where had he heard it before?

He sang a few notes aloud, hoping to exorcise it –

And remembered.

It was Orial’s tune.

Now the tune seemed skewed, its simplicity tainted by his feelings of guilt. He had treated her badly, and for reasons which were nothing to do with her but with emotions he had thought long-buried.

He had forgotten her youth, her inexperience. He had criticised her work as brutally as if she were a Conservatoire student.

Why, when he looked at her, had he seen – for a moment – Fania?

It was not her fault she remined him of long-dead Fania. She did not know, she could not know, he had had a sister, a sister who had not lived to fulfil the promise of her early years.

He sat down on a wrought-iron bench painted a dark and flaking green and watched a flutter of sparrows squabbling over crumbs of bread.

Maybe there had been guilt mingled with a child’s uncomprehending grief. The golden, gifted boy, who had envied Fania’s promise, her brilliance that threatened to overshadow his… Could the dark thoughts that had clouded his mind have made her vulnerable to the smallpox?

The boy Amaru shrinks into the shadow of a doorway as another doctor is ushered into the house and hurried upstairs. Hushed voices whisper, the bitter smoke of fever herbs wafts down the stairs, barely disguising the foetid smell of the darkened sickroom. He has become invisible; his parents stare through him as they confer in urgent undertones with the doctors, the servants rush past unseeing, bearing bowls of water, towels…