How could she trust him? He had blighted her life.

She saw him as a revolutionary hero, worthy of her self-sacrifice.

And now he knew he was no hero. He could not challenge the might of the Commanderie alone. The only man capable of such an act of heroism lay dead in the dust beside a lonely mountain road.

They had reached the bridge across the Avenne; the horses’ hooves clip-clopped slowly across. No hurry now.

The river breeze stirred wisps of fine hair against his face, soft as golden silk; Orial sighed in her sleep and he felt the gentle rhythm of her breathing alter. She was drifting upwards through sleep to consciousness. He felt a pang of anxiety, remembering how the fit had gripped her last night. Once the frail thread of sanity unravelled, how possible was it to spin the separate strands back together?

‘Where to?’ called the driver.

‘Dr Magelone’s Sanatorium,’ Khassian called back. ‘D’you know it?’

‘Pump Street? I know it well.’

The coach drew to a standstill at the entrance to Pump Street and the driver clambered down to open the door.

‘Can’t go any further. The street’s all dug up.’

Orial stirred. Her eyes opened, misted with sleep. She looked up into Khassian’s face and shrank away, as though terrified.

Did she even know him?

‘Down you get, demselle.’ The driver offered his hand to help her down into the street. Khassian followed slowly, stiffly, stretching his aching back.

Cramoisy’s crimson wig lay abandoned on the floor of the coach.

As the coach clattered away over the cobbles, Khassian looked up at the Sanatorium. Curious. All the shutters were closed.

‘Orial,’ he said gently. ‘You’re home.’

When she did not move, he put his arm about her again and steered her slowly around the open trench in the street towards the entrance to the Sanatorium.

‘That’s right, my pet. Let Cook help you off with your things.’

Orial stood numb with shock whilst Cook fussed around her, tutting at the state of her clothes.

‘Now you put on this clean nightgown and get into bed. Cook’ll bring you up a nice hot drink later on when you’ve had a little sleep.’

She could hear the words Cook was saying but they seemed to make no sense.

‘Milk with a grating of nutmeg… or cinnamon sugar, that used to be your favourite when you were young.’

Cook gathered up the travel-stained clothes and went out, still talking, ‘Get tucked into bed and rest. You’ve had a terrible journey. Rest… that’s what you need.’