‘What’s that?’ Cramoisy said sharply.

‘I don’t know.’ She put one hand to her head, trying to dam the flow of the music. ‘Do you recognise it?’

‘Sing it again.’

As Orial sang, she saw Cramoisy turn pale, clutching the pearls against his throat.

‘And you don’t know the name of the song?’

Orial shook her head.

‘Samira’s aria. Act Two. “Like a bird let me fly away”. It was Iridial’s favourite aria. They named her the Sulien Nightingale when she first sang it in Sulien.’

‘My mother’s favourite aria?’ Orial swayed, dizzied and confused by Cramoisy’s reaction. ‘But how could I have –’

He caught hold of her and steadied her.

‘I didn’t mean to alarm you so, carissa.’

The notes of the song glittered in Orial’s head, falling rain lit by the sun.

‘You must have overtaxed your strength, walking so far in this heat. I think you should rest.’

Orial nodded, letting herself lean against Cramoisy.

‘Lie down on the couch and I’ll draw the blinds. That’s right…’

‘How could I have remembered a song I’ve never heard before?’ Orial murmured as Cramoisy lifted her feet up on to the couch.

‘You must have heard it when you were a baby. You were thinking of your mother when you took out the pearls. It triggered a memory from your past, that was all. Now rest.’

Orial lay back and closed her eyes.

Cramoisy must be right. A distant childhood memory…

And yet it did not feel like a memory. It felt fresh and distinct, almost as if she had ‘heard’ the notes telepathically… as if her mother had been singing to her from beyond the grave.

At night the sounds of the Sanctuary gradually stilled until the empty courtyards echoed only to the monotonous tread of the sentries on nightwatch.

Khassian lay staring at a shred of cobweb that dangled across the moonlit window-slit, counting the regular beat of the patrolling footsteps.

It was the endless, empty hour before dawn.

The darkness pressed down on him, a smothering weight. He did not know how much longer he could endure being confined in this solitary cell. He had heard of prisoners going mad…

A distant voice penetrated the darkness, a faint voice, ragged but true, singing from the depths of the Sanctuary

Khassian raised himself on one elbow, listening.

‘“Freedom,”’ he murmured.

This was no Commanderie battle psalm. He could not catch the words – but he did not need to. He knew the rise and fall of the melody better than the singer – he had composed it. He had wrestled with the notes, moulding and shaping them until he had fashioned an arching melody that aspired, that soared, to the distant stars.

He must be going mad.

Yet even as he listened, other voices joined the first, a few at a time, then more and more.