She reached out to touch one of the columns… and fire gashed across her mind, bright as a sunflare. She snatched her fingers away as if they had been burned.

She gazed at the mess of blackened timbers and fallen plaster that filled the central void.

She knew this place.

The Opera House.

Tentatively she reached out again and, closing her eyes, let her finger-tips make contact with the charred stone.

Voices echoed in her head, gorgeous voices, swooping and darting like swallows. And, matching them in colour and vibrancy, she heard the sudden surge of a great body of instruments, strings, woodwind, harps…

An orchestra.

Dizzied by the swell of sound, she snatched her fingers away.

The echoes of the opera orchestra resonated on in her brain, a candlelit tapestry of crimson, blue and rich gold.

This was where it had all begun. This was his world.

‘Good day to you, demselle.’

She started and, turning around, saw a streetsweeper watching her, leaning on his brush. He was ill-shaven and there was something about the way he looked at her that made her uneasy.

‘The way to the Sanctuary, please, sieur?’

The man hawked and spat on the ground.

‘What does a pretty girl like you want with the Sanctuary?’

‘I just want to know the way.’

He gave a grunt.

‘I’ll set you on the right route. Follow me.’

He set off down the deserted street, Orial following a few paces behind. Soon he had slowed and was walking beside her. She drew away. He persisted. She began to glance around, hoping to see someone else whom she could ask. But the streets were empty. Maybe the people of Bel’Esstar dozed the hot afternoons away, waiting for the cooler air of evening before venturing out.

The man leaned closer to her.

‘Come with me and I’ll show you a much better time.’

‘It’s very kind of you, sieur…’ Orial began to back away.

He made a sudden lunge at her, grabbing at her breasts. His brush fell to the pavement. Orial darted under his hands and, gathering up her skirts, began to run.

He came after her but she was fleeter-footed. Slipping into a doorway, she tried to quieten her breathing. The man loped past and stopped a few paces away, sniffing around like a hound scenting its quarry. She could hear him muttering and cursing her.

After a while, an interminable while, he gave up and went away. Still she waited, willing herself to find the courage to venture out again.

Cramoisy had warned her and she had not listened. ‘Men can go where women cannot.’

She was beginning to wish she had not come.