The Captain sat down on the chair at Khassian’s bedside. Khassian glared at him.

‘At least listen to what I have to say, Illustre. The leader of our order, the Grand Maistre, is exceedingly distressed at what has –’

‘Exceedingly distressed?’ Khassian repeated, trying to hide the catch in his voice. Anger threatened to unman him, self-righteous anger that flared up, fiercer than the Opera House conflagration. ‘Look, Captain Korentan. Look at my hands.’

Maybe he had hoped to see revulsion in the Captain’s eyes, revulsion – and guilt. But the expression that momentarily softened the formal military mask was one of compassion.

‘This should never have happened,’ Korentan said.

Khassian heard the softer nuance in Korentan’s voice but was so absorbed in his own anger that he ignored it.

‘The Grand Maistre realises there is no way he can make adequate reparation to you,’ Korentan instantly became formal again. ‘He wishes at least to ensure that you have the very best medical treatment available.’

‘And what’s the catch?’ Khassian said sneeringly.

‘No catch.’

‘Oh, come, Captain Korentan, do you think I’m that naive? What service must I then render in gratitude to the cause of the Commanderie?’

‘No service, Illustre. We are a charitable order –’

‘I don’t need the Commanderie’s charity,’ Khassian said, almost spitting out each word in Korentan’s face. ‘Go back to your Grand Maistre and tell him he can keep his money. I want nothing from him.’

The Captain paused a moment as though about to speak – and then seemed to think better of it. He clicked his heels together, gave Khassian a curt bow and left the room.

In the kitchens, Cook was chopping vegetables and herbs for the lunchtime soup: leeks, waxy potatoes, spring parsley and chives.

‘Morning, Demselle Orial,’ Cook grunted, hardly glancing up from her work.

‘Shall I help you?’ Orial had been sent to restock the linen cupboard with clean towels from the laundry but if she was a few minutes delayed, no one would complain. And this was a good time to talk to Cook whilst no one else was around.

Cook shrugged and passed her a knife.

‘Mind your fingers. It’s sharp.’

‘Cook…’ Orial said, carefully shredding a leek into fronds of the palest green. ‘What exactly did my mother die of?’

‘She got sick,’ Cook said bluntly. ‘And there wasn’t a cure for her sickness.’

‘But what exactly was the sickness?’

Cook did not stop her work; if anything she seemed to chop rather more vigorously.

‘I never knew the name for it. Doubtless your father did.’

‘Cancer?’ Orial said. ‘Diabetes? Or was it some kind of contagion? Plague, cholera, smallpox?’

Cook slapped her knife down on the table.

‘Heavens, child, why this sudden morbid fascination?’

‘I’m not a child anymore,’ Orial said defiantly. ‘And I need to know. I deserve to know. Why won’t anyone tell me the truth?’