‘Yes, yes.’ Jolaine waved him away. ‘Just get some sleep.’

She settled herself in the chair at Orial’s bedside. The girl’s pale skin seemed almost translucent in the darkness – except for the long red weals marring her cheeks.

How Jolaine hated to have the blinds drawn by day; it reminded her of far-distant childhood sickrooms, of fever and bowls of gruel, beef tea and barley water…

‘Mmm…’ Orial murmured in her sleep.

Jolaine leaned over her, listening, watching for any sign of a change. Her pale lips moved, mumbling a word.

‘Ama…’

‘Ama?’ Jolaine repeated out loud, perplexed. What did it mean? Was it a name? Or was it ‘Mama’, was she calling for Iridial?

But Orial did not speak again, drifting back into drugged slumber.

Jolaine raised one of the blinds, took a book from her canvas bag and began to read, moistening her finger-tips as she turned the pages.

‘Tea, Dame Tradescar?’ Cook stood in the doorway.

‘That’s remarkably good of you,’ Jolaine said.

Cook came in and placed the tea-tray on the table beside the bed. All the time, her eyes were on Orial; she softly clicked her tongue in disapproval as she gazed down at her.

‘Poor lamb. She doesn’t even know we’re here.’

‘Cook.’ Jolaine laid down her book. ‘Won’t you join me for tea?’

‘But the doctor–’

‘Is asleep.’

‘I’ll pour then. Can’t stay long. Left the soup simmering on the hob.’ Cook wiped her bony fingers on her apron and poured tea for the two of them. ‘As I recall you like your tea with sliced lemon and two sugars, Dame Tradescar?’

‘What an excellent memory you have!’ Jolaine took the bowl and pressed her spoon against the slice of lemon, releasing its sharp fragrance. ‘I’ll wager you can remember when they pulled down the old town hall and started work on the Guildhall dome?’

‘Lady bless us, I do indeed.’ Cook eased herself down into a chair with her tea. ‘Such a fine building. Not that all the changes you and I have seen have been for the better.’

‘Too many of the old ways forgotten or pushed aside to make way for the new.’

‘These young people – excepting our Orial here – they want to make change for change’s sake.’

Dr Philemot’s eager face briefly floated before Jolaine’s eyes.

‘True, true… Look how the old traditions are swept away. I’ll also wager you know tales and songs that the young today have never even heard?’

‘When I was a girl, there used to be this custom – surely you remember it? The morning after the souls flew free on the Day of the Dead, you had to get up before dawn and go into the hills. The Faer Folk held their revels that night. If you could catch one, they were bound to grant you a wish.