The strings needed tuning… but once Orial’s fingers set to work the music flowed and the problems of the past few days receded. Receded for a little while… for soon the thought insinuated its way into her mind that this strumming of her self-composed melodies was terribly amateur. There was so much she hungered to learn. The coming of Cramoisy Jordelayne and Amaru Khassian – real musicians – only served to remind her of her own limited training.

The cithara slipped into her lap, the strings’ gilded reverberations slowly shimmered to silence.

‘What should I do?’ she said to the darkness. Her father’s prohibition seemed so blindly, needlessly cruel. Had he any idea how much her secret pastime meant to her?

As Orial emerged from the Undercity by the upper gate into the late-afternoon light, she took a swift glance from side to side to check no one had seen her. The sun was dipping towards the west beyond the enfolding hills; clear light lit the winding streets, terraces and crescents below her, gilding the soft sandstone, warming it to a rosy pink. She shivered a little as she stood at the iron railings, breath caught in a moment out of time. She loved the ancient city. Its fashions might seem quaint to outsiders, its customs outmoded, even bizarre… but she would not have exchanged it to live anywhere else – not even opulent Bel’Esstar.

… two travellers… foreigners…?’

The distant voices penetrated her reverie. She looked around, wondering who was asking about foreigners. Few people were about; the more sprightly promenaders on the upper walks had already vanished, eager, no doubt, to attend the tea dance in the Assembly Rooms.

Further along the steep railings she saw that a tall man, plainly clad in a dark travelling cloak, had stopped the lamplighter who was lighting the upper links.

She came a little closer, planning to snatch a glimpse of the man’s face as she passed by.

‘Travellers come here every day. Strangers such as yourself, sieur,’ the lamplighter was saying.

‘One has red hair. Dyed to an unusual shade. Bright crimson.’

Crimson! Orial willed herself to keep walking. Mustn’t draw attention to myself.

The lamplighter was shaking his head.

‘Can’t say as I remember, sieur.’

Who was he, this stranger? Orial risked a quick sideways glance and caught a brief impression of a stern face framed by long steel-grey hair. No other identifying features, no rings, no badge of office; dark clothes that betrayed nothing of the wearer’s nationality or occupation.

Who is he? Suppose he stops me and asks me? I always blush when I lie. I would betray them –

In sudden confusion, she gathered up her skirts and began to run.

‘And how are you feeling today, Illustre?’

Khassian could sense a distinct lack of warmth in the doctor’s enquiry.

‘You don’t like me, do you, Dr Magelonne?’