Magelonne opened the door to his office and ushered the stranger inside. Seated behind his desk he felt more in command of the situation.

‘I won’t waste your time, Doctor. I’m looking for a man called Amaru Khassian.’

‘For what purpose?’ Magelonne said carefully.

The steel-blue eyes did not waver.

‘I wish to talk to him.’

Dr Magelonne assessed the stranger. His clothes were sombre; charcoal jacket, grey shirt, no adornments, all plainly cut to the point of austerity. A military cut. He wore them like a uniform. His whole bearing seemed to say ‘soldier’. Or Guerrior of the Commanderie, thought Dr Magelonne, remembering what Khassian had told him.

‘The Illustre Khassian is my patient. But he has been very ill. I cannot permit any visitors yet.’

A shadow clouded the peerless blue gaze. Annoyance at being thwarted… or a hint of concern? Magelonne could not be sure. He stared back at Acir Korentan, silently challenging him to gainsay him.

‘I shall wait, then, until he is well enough to receive visitors. May I call again tomorrow?’

The lovage soup was cooling in its tureen, a skin beginning to form on the creamy green surface. Papa must have forgotten it was lunchtime. Again. Orial went hurrying along the corridor to her father’s office – and stopped as she saw a man coming out of the study. The stranger. The stranger who had been asking questions about Cramoisy and Khassian.

She shrank into a doorway but he strode right past her, not even noticing she was there.

She watched him open the door into the courtyard, watched through the willow leaf-patterned glass as his shadow dwindled, disappearing beneath the archway. Only then did she realise she had been holding her breath.

Dr Magelonne was still sitting at his desk, eyes fixed on some distant point.

‘Who was that?’ Orial said.

‘What?’ He gave a little start. ‘Oh… no one you need worry about.’

‘I’m not a child, Papa,’ she said sternly. ‘He’s from Allegonde, isn’t he?’

Dr Magelonne nodded. He took out his handkerchief and began to polish the lenses of his spectacles, an activity he usually performed when he was troubled by something.

‘Has he come to arrest the Illustre? You won’t let him, will you? You’ll protect him – and Cramoisy.’

‘Listen, Orial.’ Dr Magelonne stood up and drew her close to him. ‘I don’t want you to involve yourself in this matter. A good healer needs to cultivate a sense of detachment, hm?’

‘But if they go back to Allegonde, they’ll be arrested – tortured –’

‘My dear, our business is to ensure that the Illustre receives the very best medical treatment we can provide. What becomes of him when he leaves the Sanatorium is not our concern.’