‘Those are your orders.’ The secretary turned back to his work.

Orial hummed to herself as she combed her hair. She kept snatching little critical glances at herself in the mirror. First she pulled her hair back with a ribbon. Then she let it fall loose about her shoulders. Still unsatisfied, she took the two side locks and looped and pinned them… Which was the most becoming? Perhaps, after years at court, he preferred the natural, less artifical style. Perhaps –

What am I doing! She threw down her brush in dismay. Preening like a silly schoolgirl!

‘Say aloud three times, “The arrangement between us is strictly professional”,’ she ordered her reflection.

One moment, life was so enchanting she wanted to laugh aloud; the next, she was seized with a sense of its poignancy that brought her close to tears. And he had made her see this way, he had opened her eyes…

Amaru Khassian.

She could not even whisper his name without feeling a shiver of illicit delight.

This obsession was ridiculous. What would he, a man ten years older than she, ever find to intrigue him in a Sulien schoolgirl? She was wasting time on Amaru Khassian that she should have spent on her own compositions. His music dominated her waking life. His presence dominated her waking dreams: wounded, brooding, enigmatic.

Cramoisy was preparing to go shopping as Orial arrived at Mistress Permay’s house.

‘I was just saying to Amaru that I have not seen our dour-faced Captain for several days,’ the Diva announced. ‘Have you seen him, Orial?’

Orial shook her head. ‘Not since he came upon us rehearsing in the Undercity.’

‘Do you know what I think, Amar?’

‘No… but I know you’re going to tell me.’

‘I believe he has given up. He’s gone back to Allegonde. At last we are to be left in peace.’

‘Left in peace?’ Khassian gave a wry laugh. ‘He’s just biding his time. Waiting for the right moment to make his next move.’

The silence of the salon was broken only by the soft scritch-scratch of Orial’s pen. Khassian stood at the window, his back to her, silently dictating.

Across the sublimely agonised line of Elesstar’s aria, another tune suddenly intruded, a cracked tune, a lewd tune that broke her concentration.

Orial looked up.

‘Is there someone in the street?’

‘I can’t see anyone,’ Khassian said, scanning the Crescent below.

‘I – I thought I – There! Can’t you hear it now?’ Orial, frowning, put one hand to her head as if she could erase the intrusive tune with her fingers.

‘No. But it doesn’t matter.’ He came to her side and looked at what she had written. ‘Maybe you should take a rest. We’re making good progress. Soon we will have completed Elesstar’s mad scene. Then comes the final transfiguration and apotheosis.’