When he emerged, he saw it was twilight. Hours must have passed below ground without his noticing.

Sulien came alight with coloured lanterns, glittering festoons of pale jewels. Spurts of fire fizzled up, punctuated by loud retorts and cries of wonder: firecrackers, rockets and candles were being let off. The city was in celebratory mood.

In the Parade Gardens families were merrily picnicking on the grass, each picnic lit by bright flares: citrus and lime green. He wandered past aimlessly, detached from the holiday mood that had infected the city.

‘Amaru!’ Jolaine Tradescar hailed him; she was sitting on the grass with Theophil Philemot who was busy opening up a wicker basket. ‘We’ve got a splendid picnic hamper here. Spit-roast chicken, salads, mountain strawberries, clotted cream… We’re waiting to see the fireworks. Won’t you join us?’

‘We’d be honoured,’ said Theophil Philemot shyly.

Khassian shook his head, smiling. He was not hungry.

He walked slowly on beside the Avenne, leaving the lanterns and the celebrations behind. On the far side of the river the walls of the Foreigners’ Cemetery loomed, a shadow against the dwindling light.

He had not come here purposely… and yet now he found himself crossing the bridge, drawn to the solitude of the silent cemetery.

The moon was rising, casting a shimmer of silver on the graves as Khassian walked through the rustling grasses. White rose petals lay scattered over the long grasses.

The last time he had seen the cemetery by night had been in a dream. Had he hoped that he might glimpse Acir Korentan once more, Acir transfigured, holding out his hand to him?

Khassian sat down in the grass beside Acir’s grave and gazed up at the star-pricked sky.

A rush of memories overwhelmed him, memories from the time those strong arms had pulled him back to life from the cold drowning waters, to that final, nightmare coach-ride when he realised that Acir was slowly slipping away from him… and there was nothing he could do to bring him back.

They had spent so much of their short acquaintance in conflict that only now did he realise how much he had come to value Acir.

Only now did he realise that he had loved him.

As dusk fell, Jerame slowly made his way back to the Sanatorium alone.

He lit a waxen lotos candle of pure white and placed it beneath Iridial’s portrait.

Distant bangs and fizzes from exploding fireworks punctuated the night’s silence. He felt too weary to go lighting bonfires or fireworks. Weary – and troubled. Since that transcendent moment of revelation in the Undercity, one thing alone had obsessed him.

The translucent brightness that had irradiated the Hall of Whispering Reeds, that spinning, celestial music…

Had Iridial been a part of it?

He picked up the lock of fair, faded hair and stroked it against his cheek.

And now he was so very, very weary.