‘Had you never stopped to ask yourself if there might not be a grain of truth in the old legends? That if you stripped away the veneer of centuries, there might be an underlying constant beneath the distortions and elaborations? That there might be an ancient wisdom we could use to preserve Orial?’

‘Then why is modern medical science ignorant of it? I consulted the greatest authorities in Tourmalise over Ir— Ir—.’ He could not bring himself to say her name out loud.

‘That was because the answer was here in Sulien. And maybe Iridial was trying to tell us so – but we did not understand her.’

‘There is no proof!’ cried Jerame. ‘And all the while we waste time arguing over maybe and what-might-have, Orial is with Amaru Khassian. And every moment she spends with him is shortening her life, hastening the onset of the Accidie.’

Sun-glints on green water…

Orial had set out to walk to the Crescent. But now she found herself walking once more beside the Avenne.

What am I doing here? I should be with the Illustre. He’ll be displeased if I’m late again.

She had hardly slept all night for the music in her head. She had covered sheets of paper, trying to notate the different melodies, trying to disentangle the knotted threads. Now she was so tired that the bright flowerbeds of the River Gardens had all merged into a blur.

She stopped beside a willow and sat on the grassy riverbank to take off her spectacles and rest her sore eyes. The soft plashing of the water, the breath of the breeze through the willow leaves, wove a thread of green melody, pulsing spring sap, into her mind.

Riversong, lulling her to sleep…

If she closed her eyes a moment…

Sleep…

A bright burst of sound awoke her. The band had begun to tune up in the River Gardens and the cacophony as they endeavoured to reach the same pitch pierced like a white-hot blade through her spinning thoughts.

If the band was tuning up, it must already be three in the afternoon. And she should have been with Khassian by three.

Must go to the Crescent… must…

Slowly, exhaustedly, she forced herself up the grassy bank. So tired… she was so very tired…

Khassian, standing at his usual vantage point at the window, saw Orial meandering along the sunny Crescent. What was the matter with the girl? Why was she so late? He was impatient to get started, his mind bursting with fresh ideas.

Two men in uniform appeared, walking briskly along the Crescent; they passed Orial and came up the path to knock at Mistress Permay’s door. Their dark blue jackets and crimson-trimmed tricorne hats proclaimed them members of the Sulien Constabulory. Khassian leaned closer to the glass, trying to hear what they were saying.

‘I keep a respectable house, Officer, as well you know,’ Mistress Permay was protesting.

Khassian moved hastily away from the window.