Orial’s eyes opened. She was lying in bed in the Villa of Yellow Vines, clutching at the coverlet, staring straight ahead of her.

The dragonflies were gone. But the melody threads had clung to her memory, sticky as spider-silk.

Somewhere in the street far below her window she could hear the clank of the water churns as the waterman delivered the Villa’s supply. Sparrows were squabbling in the gutter. Ordinary sounds of an ordinary day. Yet all the sounds were distant, as though heard from the end of a far tunnel.

Orial staggered out of bed and opened the window. The slow clip-clop of the waterman’s horse echoed around the empty street, the grind of the cart wheels over the cobbles.

Louder still, much louder, was the still-spinning song of her dream, the song of the winged ones. She banged the window shut. The glass shuddered in the pane – she felt its vibrations – yet the bang was a remote sound, hardly registering above the insistent web of dream-music.

She made her way back towards the bed. Each footfall resounded hollowly as though she was walking through a vast, echoing cavern. Each step was an effort as – disorientated – she seemed to have forgotten how to move in this heavy human body.

She had felt like this once before. But when was it? She had a vague memory of Papa forcing vile-tasting medicine down her throat, of this light-headedness, faces swimming above hers…

‘Accidie,’ she murmured aloud.

There was a sharp tap at the door.

‘Orial, Korentan’s sent us a message!’ Cramoisy’s voice fluttered with excitement. ‘Listen to this! “A visit has been arranged for this afternoon.” A visit! This is it! Start packing!’

Accidie.

Orial pressed her finger-tips to her throbbing temples.

Why? Why today, of all days, when she needed her faculties to be at their most acute? She had known the period of remission might be short – but she had never imagined it would recur so soon.

‘Give me a little more time,’ she pleaded silently. ‘Just a little.’

‘Captain Korentan?’

The youthful voice made Acir stop and turn around. The young Guerrior at the gate saluted him; beneath the guard-helm his face was brown, burned by the sun.

‘Tobyn!’ he said. And then, overwhelmed with gladness at the sight of a familiar face, he put his hands on the young man’s shoulders and embraced him. ‘But I thought you were still in Enhirrë?’

‘The detachment sailed into Bel’Esstar a couple of days ago. They transferred most of us here. It’s good to see you again, Captain.’

‘How’s the shoulder?’

‘Fine, Captain.’ Tobyn flashed him a broad grin. ‘Though it wouldn’t have been so fine with me if you hadn’t beaten those Enhirran Sbarreurs off in the raid. I’ll never forget what you did.’

Acir acknowledged the compliment with a smile. ‘And the others?’

Tobyn leaned forward, lowering his voice.