‘No, I’m wrong,’ she said slowly, with growing understanding. ‘I’m a freak. Can’t you imagine how it happened? Allegondans captured and raped the few surviving Lifhendil women. The Allegondans and Lifhendil were never meant to intermarry. I am the result of some ancient atrocity.’

‘But no freak, my dear.’ Jolaine took her hands; the Antiquarian’s fingers felt as gnarled and knotted as willow twigs but Orial was grateful for the comfort of her firm grip. ‘The wrong that was done to your Lifhendil ancestors was that their culture was obliterated. Until now.’

‘What have you discovered?’ Orial whispered, not taking her eyes from Jolaine’s.

‘To the Lifhendil, this life was but one stage in their development. The first stage.’

‘The first stage?’

‘The reservoirs were designed as – as –’ Jolaine Tradescar searched for words. ‘Places of transition. Birthing pools. Are you with me? Not burial places – but somewhere where the mortal shell could be shrugged off, where a new, transfigured being would emerge. Like the dragonflies.’

‘But that would mean my mother –’ Orial had begun to tremble. ‘She went mad. She – she was buried in the dark waters, the reservoir. Oh, Jolaine –’

‘If it’s upsetting you –’

‘Go on.’

‘The madness was regarded as a sign from the Goddess. A sign that the one divinely afflicted was ready to be translated to a higher state. To join the winged ones.’

‘The faeries?’

‘Faeries, angels, that’s our modern, inadequate translation… the Lifhendil had no words like these.’ Hoisting the canvas artist’s bag on to her shoulder, Jolaine locked the door to her office and ushered Orial down the Museum between the shrouded cabinets.

‘But surely it’s just a metaphor, Jolaine. The body dies and the spirit takes wing towards the light.’

‘Not for the Lifhendil,’ Jolaine said firmly.

Orial saw that there was no gleam of eccentric fervour in Jolaine’s eyes. She was in earnest.

‘You really believe it.’

“There’s too much evidence to the contrary.’ Jolaine shot back the bolts and opened the door; cloudy daylight spilled into the Museum.

‘B-but – where are they now? The winged ones?’

‘Now?’ Jolaine’s eyes lifted beyond hers, towards the distant hills. ‘On the lonely mountainside, behind the waterfall? Over the hills and faraway…’

‘Dame Tradescar!’

Two men were coming swiftly towards them, climbing the steps two-at-a-time.

‘Hell and damnation!’ Jolaine swore under her breath and attempted to retreat into the Museum. But her canvas bag-strap caught on the door handle and before she could slam the door shut, the brawnier of the two men wedged his foot and shoulder in between.

‘You can’t come in,’ Jolaine said defensively. ‘See the notice?’

‘I see it.’ The second of the men, impeccably dressed, took a letter from his breast pocket and handed it to Jolaine.

‘What does this mean?’ Orial said, bewildered.