‘You were here last night, weren’t you? Have you been here all this time? That’s against the regulations. You crossed into Tourmalise without a passport –’

‘I have papers, travel permits.’ she said in a dull, distant voice.

He beckoned her towards the hut. She gathered up her torn skirts and followed slowly after him, moving as if she were sleepwalking. In the hut she produced the papers.

‘You’ll find they’re all in order. Now tell me where I may arrange for this man to be buried?’

The guard hesitated.

‘He’s not a citizen of Sulien.’

‘I have money,’ she said, her dirt-streaked face a mask. She held out a handful of coins. ‘Does that cover the necessary documents?’

The guard took the money, counted it and nodded.

‘I’ll fill in a certificate. The Foreigners’ Cemetery is down by the river. Ask for Asper, the gravedigger. He’ll do what’s needed. Now…’ he said, reaching for a pen ‘… what was this man’s name?’

‘Korentan,’ she said, her voice tightening. He saw the sudden glitter of tears in her eyes. ‘Acir Korentan.’

*

‘What you need right now, young man, is a cup of good, strong qaffë. Where did I put that qaffë filter…’

Khassian heard Dame Tradescar muttering to herself, the clinking of crockery – and then the delicious smell of brewing qaffë began to waft into the parlour.

The old woman at the Sanatorium had told him to go and inform Dame Tradescar of Orial’s return. Now as he sat here, safe amidst the comforting clutter of books, drawings and archaeological artefacts, his hands began to shake uncontrollably.

‘Sugar?’ Jolaine Tradescar brought out a yellowed cane sugarloaf and chipped off granules with the edge of a spoon. ‘Here.’ She passed him a bowl of hot qaffë. ‘Drink this.’

Khassian balanced the bowl between his shaking hands and raised it to his lips. The qaffë burned his tongue but it was strong and very sweet. He could not remember the last time he had tasted qaffë. He concentrated on savouring the taste, blanking his mind to what he knew he must do next.

As he set down the empty bowl, he saw Dame Tradescar observing him with her inquisitive blue eyes: scholar’s eyes that missed nothing.

‘You’ve been very kind.’

She shrugged the compliment aside.

‘But I mustn’t take up any more of your time. There’s something I must attend to.’

‘Ah,’ said Jolaine.

‘Your burial practices are very different from ours. But – with so many visitors – there must be a foreigners’ cemetery in Sulien?’

‘There’s a sorry place, overgrown and neglected, on the other bank of the Avenne.’ She was still watching him keenly.

Suddenly Khassian began to talk. All that had happened came spilling out, unchecked: the terrifying escape through the thunderstorm, Acir’s dying efforts to get them safely to Sulien…

‘I can’t leave him there unburied.’ Khassian turned his head away.