‘If you had come on a temporary permit, it would have expired after eight weeks. It would have had to be renewed,’ he said sternly.

‘Are you threatening me, officer?’ said Cramoisy, giving him one of his most withering glances.

In reply, he drew an order out of his breast pocket and handed it to Cramoisy.

‘Well, and what is this?’

‘Notice. If you and the gentleman here have not produced the necessary papers within three days, I will be obliged to arrest you and take you to the border where you will be handed into the custody of officials of your own country.’

He gave a little bow and placed his hat back on his head. The other constable snapped his notebook shut, pocketed it and stuck his pencil stub behind his ear.

‘We’ll see ourselves out.’

The instant they had closed the door behind them, Cramoisy threw the order of repatriation on the floor and stamped on it.

‘Who has done this to us? Who has reported us? I’ll wager it’s that cursed Captain Korentan!’

‘Three days,’ Khassian said numbly. ‘Three days.’

‘All’s not lost yet, Amar. The Mayor will grant us a reprieve. And if he won’t – then we’ll have to go underground.’

‘Always hiding, always on the run.’ Khassian’s head was aching; the tension of the interview with the constables had tightened a band around his temples. ‘How long can we keep this up?’

‘As long as we have to,’ the Diva said brightly. ‘Ask yourself – what is the alternative? To go back to Bel’Esstar? To kneel before Girim nel Ghislain and beg forgiveness? To repudiate your works, denounce your friends publicly? To reject everything you have ever valued?’

‘I’m tired, Cram,’ he said.

The Diva drew Khassian’s head towards his shoulder and let it rest there a moment or so. Then he patted his cheek.

‘Orial’s waiting. Get back to work.’

The music flowed from Orial’s fingers in a flood that she could no longer control, it possessed her whole being utterly.

Rivermusic.

She was a channel through which the music poured in a torrent, unchecked. But where all had been golden glints on green water, now a chill darkness slowly shadowed the notes until the onward rush had become an underworld river moving through a still, sad landscape…

Distant voices whisper over the black water, calling her name…

‘No…’ she whispers back.

‘Orial…’

She can see them now, waiting on the far shore, a host of pale spirit-shades, calling to her.

The voices of the dead…

The notes of the epinette floated into the salon, the melody eldritch, haunting, the underlying harmonies subtle and sad.

It was a warm day. Yet Khassian sat shivering as the music wove its wanton spell. The notes of his score seemed to shrivel into insignificance on the page before his eyes. Even this, his most inspired, his most complex, work lacked that unique quality of spontaneity.