She stands alone in a ruined hall of broken mirrors. In the distance a rainbow shimmers. Slowly, yearningly, she moves towards it, hands outstretched. Her feet crunch over shards of broken mirror-glass until they bleed, each step releasing a harsher burst of cacophony until the stones of the ruined hall start to tremble. Yet with each painful step, the iridescent bow seems further and further away…

Orial opened her eyes.

She wanted to weep for her spoiled prelude, for its bright and innocent spontaneity – but her sore eyes felt too dry for tears. Or maybe she wanted to weep for the loss of her mother; the two had become inextricably entwined.

Loss: an aching emptiness, mingled with a child’s uncomprehending anger…

How had she thought she could ever adequately express her feelings in such naive musical language?

Orial wrapped up the cithara and replaced it behind the memorial stone.

She took the lantern and began to wander aimlessly through the Undercity. But now the raw, rekindled anger began to conjure shadows from the silence of the Lifhendil necropolis. She started at the sound of her own footfall, began to glimpse spirit-shapes, pale and formless, out of the corner of her eye. Were the souls of the dead still lingering here, waiting for the Day of the Dead to release them?

Was that slight sound the whispering of dead voices… or her own hesistant breathing?

She found that she had come to the door of the Lotos Chamber; within, the Lotos Princess still held court, playing the cithara to an enraptured Lifhendil audience.

Holding the lantern high, Orial tried to scry the winged figures Jolaine Tradescar had described to her.

She had never paid them much attention before… but now she saw that they hovered, like tutelary spirits, behind the Princess’s head. The insubstantial gauzes that streamed from their shoulders could be… wings?

The air behind her seemed – for one brief moment – to twitch. A breath fanned her hair.

Startled, she wheeled around, almost dropping the lantern.

‘Who’s there?’ she whispered into the darkness.

It was almost as if something – or someone – had flitted past her. And yet there was no sound of footsteps or voices.

She was alone. And yet not alone.

For the first time in the Undercity, Orial Magelonne found herself overwhelmed by a sudden sense of mindless terror.

She gathered up her skirts – and ran.

CHAPTER 11

Orial was sorting through the first pages of Act Three with Khassian when the Diva wandered yawning into the salon, patch box and mirror in hand. He had obviously only just risen from sleep even though it was well past midday.

‘Orial, sweet.’ Cramoisy kissed the tips of his fingers to her.

‘We’re busy,’ Khassian said, reading the sheets over Orial’s shoulder.