‘You’ve heard that the springs have dried up?’

‘I’ve heard that they’re blaming me.’

‘Which is completely ridiculous!’ said Philemot hotly. ‘How could meticulous scholarly excavations cause a geological phenomenon such as this?’

Meticulous? Scholarly? Jolaine Tradescar was beginning to take a reluctant liking to Dr Philemot.

‘So you don’t believe in this ancient evil that I have apparently awakened by desecrating the holy places with my digging?’

‘Think back, Dame Tradescar. Yesterday, and two days earlier, there was distant thunder. But no storm, no rain. Most people I have spoken to agree it was coming from the mountains.’

Dame Tradescar rubbed her hands together.

‘You have a theory?’

‘Better. I have a map.’

Philemot produced the map from his pocket and spread it out on the table.

‘No one has ever traced the source of the springs?’

‘Not to my knowledge. The Temple Court discourages that kind of investigation.’ Jolaine looked up at Philemot over the rim of her pince-nez spectacles. ‘It’s all bound up in the spirit of the place. It’s hard to separate Sulien from its springs – and its springs from its tutelary Goddess.’

‘But even the Goddess’s gift could be abused by men. Men quarrying deep into the hills. Blasting deeper with charges of firedust. Silting up the sources of ancient springs. See here? The site of an Allegondan quarry.’

‘Interesting.’ Jolaine suddenly chuckled. ‘Sit down, Dr Philemot.’ She scooped up a pile of books from an ancient armchair and patted the upholstery. A little cloud of dust motes arose, shimmering in the sunshine.

‘And there’s another reason I wished to consult you. It’s probably of little interest to you… but it’s always intrigued me since I first spotted it in its case in the Antiquities Cabinet in Can Tabrien. When the Antiquarian learned I had secured a position in Sulien, he let me bring it here to ask your opinion. He has read several of your monographs on pre-Allegondan Tourmalise.’

‘Has he indeed?’ Jolaine was flattered, though she was damned if she was going to show it. ‘So – where is this thing of little interest?’

Philemot brought from his pocket a bundle of soft cloths and carefully unwrapped the contents.

Inside lay an enamelled fragment, about half the size of a man’s palm, with delicate petals, white and pink, inlaid upon verdigris. Lotos petals.

‘How it came to be in Can Tabrien, I have no idea.’

‘Good gracious,’ Jolaine Tradescar said, staring. ‘Good gracious me.’

‘It is genuine, isn’t it?’

Jolaine’s fingers reached out greedily – and then stopped.

‘May I?’

‘Please do,’ Theophil Philemot said generously.

Jolaine took up the fragment and lovingly turned it over and over in her hands.

‘I think we may have something quite remarkable here.’

‘Ah?’ Philemot was evidently trying not to sound too excited.

‘It is without doubt of Lifhendil craftmanship. Late period.’