Khassian closed his eyes. He had condemned himself.

‘I will give you one more chance to change your mind. So I am sending you to the Sanctuary, Illustre. There, in a solitary cell, you will have time to reflect upon the answer you have just given me.’

Voices outside the bedroom door drifted into Orial’s consciousness.

‘A remarkable recovery, wouldn’t you say, Tartarus?’

She smiled drowsily to herself: Papa’s voice, reassuringly confident.

‘Remarkable, indeed. But for how long will it last?’

‘For as long as I can keep her away from the music.’

‘Ha! And you really believe you can do it?’

‘If music overstimulates certain areas of her brain, provoking these manic episodes, then yes, I must do it. She’ll come to see the sense of it in time.’

What was Papa saying?

No music meant never to see Amaru Khassian again. Never to share again the unique melding of musical consciousness that had bonded their minds.

How could Papa say he loved her – and deprive her of the one thing she cherished most?

‘If you change your mind, Jerame, you know where to find me.’

The voices faded as the men moved away down the corridor.

Orial lay motionless.

There was still a choice.

To live a sterile life, safe from the dangerous influence of music, a sheltered life, trapped within the silent walls of the Sanatorium…

… or to break free, to follow the glamour of the music wherever it led her, to dance to its tune until the madness finally claimed her.

‘Good morning, Papa.’

Jerame looked up from his breakfast to see Orial propping herself against the doorframe.

‘Why are my legs still so weak?’ she complained.

‘My dear, you have been very ill.’ Jerame tenderly helped her into a chair. ‘You must try to regain your strength slowly, not rush at everything.’

‘But there is so much to be done! The Illustre will be wondering what has become of me –’ She stopped, one hand flying up to cover her mouth.

‘I know,’ Jerame said, steeling himself to tell her what had happened. ‘I know what you were doing.’ Better he told her the truth than that she heard some garbled version from Cramoisy Jordelayne. ‘Listen, Orial. Khassian has gone back to Bel’Esstar.’

‘Gone back!’ she echoed in an incredulous whisper. ‘And he left no word for me?’

‘He had very little time, I believe, to leave word for anyone. There was an extradition order.’ He moved to the window, pretending to look out at the weather. ‘He had to go.’

‘But, Papa – do you know what this means? They’ll kill him.’

The volatility of youth. Everything was a life-or-death issue. He sighed.

‘There were charges he was obliged to answer in Allegonde. He was fulfilling his duty as a citizen –’