No. Not Tartarus. He would not have that man poking and prodding with his yellowed finger-tips, peering into her wandering eyes with his glass, pawing her – and all in the name of his research.

‘Dr Magelonne.’ Sister Crespine tapped discreetly at the half-open door. ‘There is a woman here to see you.’

‘Send her away. I cannot see anyone. My daughter is ill. Desperately ill.’

‘I think you may wish to see me, Doctor.’

That grave, cool voice subtly inflected with its Allegondan accent – he turned to see the Contesse Fiammis in the doorway.

‘I cannot see anyone –’ he began again, but she came in and closed the door, placing herself in front of it.

‘Are the rumours correct? Your daughter was taken ill in the apartments of Amaru Khassian?’

‘Him and his damned music!’ Jerame choked on the words.

She drew close.

‘Are you prepared to lodge a formal complaint against him? With the Constabulary?’

‘On what charge?’ Grief-drunk, he almost laughed aloud at the thought. ‘Abusing my daughter – with music? ‘

‘Corrupting your daughter’s mind.’

‘I don’t know, I don’t know.’ Jerame let his head sink into his hands.

‘You want him out of your daughter’s life?’

‘I – don’t know if my daughter has any hope of a life now –’

‘Then make a formal complaint.’

Jerame slowly raised his head to gaze at the Contesse.

‘Were you aware he was making your daughter work long hours transcribing his music?’

‘No, I was not aware,’ he heard himself saying in a voice bleared with fatigue. Even though Khassian could not have known of Orial’s condition, the composer must have sensed he was pushing her to the limits, he must have seen her pallor, her exhaustion. Doubtless he thought he was bestowing some privilege upon her in using her as his assistant. And Orial had such a kind, giving nature, she would have striven to please, not heeding the cost to her own health.

‘And can we be certain that is all he was making her do?’ said the Contesse in a silk-soft voice.

Her words conjured lewd images of seduction, as loathsome as they were lascivious. All those long hours they had spent together, alone, unchaperoned…

‘I have no proof, of course, but…’

‘Orial,’ whispered Jerame. His beloved daughter wasting all the promise of her young life on a selfish, over-indulged composer.

A father’s anger, pure animal instinct, raw and primitive, flared up within him. His child, his only child…

‘I am on my way to see the Commissaire now,’ said the Contesse. ‘Can I count on your support, Doctor?’ She opened the door and went out into the hall, her taffeta gown whispering with the soft rustle of willow leaves as she walked.

‘Wait!’ Jerame took up his hat and gloves and strode swiftly after her. Amaru Khassian must answer for the consequences of his actions.

CHAPTER 18

Faint strains of music drifted from the centre of the city, transient as windscattered petals.