‘Oh no, no…’ Khassian felt as if he was falling from a great height into blackness. ‘She can’t be dead!’

‘She’s gone, sieur. There’s nothing anyone can do. He’s laid her in the treatment room – but now he won’t let anyone near. I’m afraid – afraid he may do himself some mischief.’

Too late.

‘No!’ Khassian howled aloud.

A strange and aromatic fragrance drifted through the neglected cemetery; a rich, dark scent redolent of musk roses and incense.

The Rose had opened.

Its crimson petals had the velvet bloom of black grapes; as Khassian came slowly, wonderingly, closer, the scent grew stronger, potent as red wine.

And there, at the heart of the Rose, glistening in the dappled evening light, drops of dark moisture, redder than heart’s blood.

He knelt beside the grave and reached out to pluck the Rose.

The Rose was not to be plucked.

The black thorns pricked his hands, tearing the burned flesh. Pain flared through his fingers, bright as fire. He gritted his teeth against the pain. He must endure this for Orial’s sake.

The stem suddenly snapped and he found himself holding the precious flower head in his cupped hands.

The door to the Sanatorium was open.

Khassian, carrying the precious Rose, walked in unchallenged.

Dame Tradescar and Cook stood at the doorway to Dr Magelonne’s office. When they saw Khassian, they drew aside to let him pass.

Khassian went in – and then, seeing what lay within, faltered.

Orial’s body lay on the couch, riverwater still dripping on to the floor from her wet hair, her trailing fingers. Jerame Magelonne knelt at the foot of the couch, his face buried in the folds of her gown.

It was not the pallor of her skin that terrified Khassian but the absence of movement. She who had been so vibrant in life now lay still, silent.

Jerame Magelonne raised his head from the couch and stared at Khassian with eyes that burned dark with hatred.

‘What are you doing here? You have no right.’

‘Let the boy pay his respects,’ said Cook.

Khassian came slowly forward. The Rose burned his bleeding fingers – but its musky perfume filled the room, darkly heady as rare Enhirran spices.

Jerame sprang up, placing himself between the couch and Khassian.

‘Keep away from her! Don’t touch her!’

Jolaine Tradescar went to Jerame, catching hold of him by the arm.

‘Leave the boy alone. Let him do what he has come to do!’

Khassian drew closer.

Her mouth gaped slightly open.

Khassian held the soft petals until they brushed her grey lips and watched as the dark roseblood seeped between them.

A dark column of rose-red smoke swirled up, enveloping Orial and Khassian in a cloud of fragrance – and in the heart of the smoke burned a searing, cleansing shaft of flame.

Cradled in darkness, she has lain here lulled by the lapping waters. How long? Time has no meaning.