Her callousness shocked him. What had become of the young girl, golden-haired Fia, whom he had loved so passionately? Who had corrupted her, who had trained her to kill? Before he knew what he was doing, he had gripped her by the shoulders, forcing her to look into his face.

‘Spare Khassian. Let him live. There has to be another way.’

Her eyes opened wide, curious, questioning.

‘I have my orders. Why should I disobey them?’

Still that infuriating air of nonchalance, taunting him, teasing him.

‘For my sake, Fia.’

‘I propose a compromise.’ She slipped out of his grasp as lightly as a dancer. ‘I will find… another way, as you put it. He will live. But in return, you will grant me a favour when next we meet.’

‘What manner of favour?’

‘Whatever I ask.’

He was caught in her snare.

‘If it is in my power to grant that favour –’

‘Oh, it is, Acir.’ She lifted her hand and let her finger-tip brush across his lips. ‘It is.’

Amused watchers in the Gardens below had seen the fine gentlewoman and the man on the bridge tussling over the pretty parasol.

Their raised voices had been too faint to distinguish the words. Seasoned observers of the Sulien social scene could easily guess the theme. They pleased themselves with constructing little scenarios: she had bought another outrageously expensive outfit; he had caught her flirting with a rival and had decided to assert himself; the parasol was a present from her lover and proof positive that he had been cuckolded… It was generally decided that the latter interpretation was the most likely: she was an uncommonly handsome woman – whereas he, soberly dressed, stern-faced, was obviously too boorish a companion for such a rare creature.

In the wistaria-wreathed pavilion, Amaru Khassian sat alone, wondering if he had misread the time – or the day – on Azare’s note. Or perhaps there was another pavilion in the Botanical Gardens.

Either way, he had wasted an afternoon when he could have been composing.

Fiammis threw the broken parasol down upon her bed.

He had touched her. He had caught hold of her – she could feel his touch still, as if his fingers had burned her skin.

She closed her eyes a moment, reliving the sensation.

Against her closed lids she saw a marigold meadow under a blue sky, she heard the echo of distant teasing laughter. A dark-browed boy caught her in his arms – and she pushed him away, mocking.

Then he had vowed himself forever hers and she had rejected him. Now she burned to possess him, to melt that stern resolve.

But now he knows me for what I truly am. An assassin.

She opened her eyes. On the bed lay the twisted frame of the parasol, irrefutable evidence of her trade.

She picked it up and examined the mechanism. The delicate concealed spring-action mechanism was wrecked beyond hope of repair.

She was becoming careless.