‘What? That pile of old papers left in the salon? I gave ‘em to the kitchens when I cleared out. Waste not, want not. They’re cheaper than buying spills to light the –’

‘The kitchens!’ Khassian pushed past her, making for the servants’ stair beyond the elegant hall.

‘Where d’you think you’re going, young man?’ Mistress Permay’s voice rose to an outraged shriek.

Khassian hurried down the poky stair, past the pantry and into the kitchen. A scullery maid looked up in surprise from the colander of peas she was shelling; the floor at her feet was covered in empty pods.

A black cooking range was set in the chimney alcove behind her. A massive pile of papers stood beside it – mostly, it seemed, yellowing copies of the Sulien Chronicle.

Khassian began clumsily to sort through the pile, discarding Chronicles to left and to right.

‘Whatever are you doing?’ Mistress Permay was quivering with anger: even the frilled mob cap set atop her wig seemed to have taken on a life of its own. ‘Stop at once, young man, or I shall send for the constable!’

The scullery maid was giggling behind her hand.

‘Aha!’ Khassian had spotted the green portfolio. He pulled it from the pile: pages of manuscript spilled out, all covered in Orial’s wayward hand. He shuffled them back into the portfolio and, clasping the precious manuscript to his breast, stood up to confront Mistress Permay.

‘I warn you –’ she began.

‘If I find one page – just one page – has been burned,’ he said, trembling, ‘I shall sue.’ He turned on his heel and left the kitchen. As he climbed the stairs, he heard the scullery maid explode into laughter – soon cut short by a loud slap.

Khassian went directly with his manuscript to the qaffë house where Valentan and Azare were employed.

Yet when he arrived, no strains of music drifted out into Guildhall Square. Were they still abed, recovering from last night’s celebrations? He scanned the busy qaffë house, peering through the blue tobacco smoke for his friends.

‘Over here, Amar!’ called Valentan from the corner table.

‘Welcome, Illustre.’ The proprietor came out, bowing and smiling, ushering Khassian to their table. ‘It’s an honour to serve you. What will you have?’

Khassian looked questioningly at the musicians.

‘It’s on the house,’ Valentan said, smiling.

‘Qaffë then, I thank you…’

‘Such music,’ the proprietor said, kissing his fingers as he hurried away. ‘Such heavenly music’

Khassian sat down between the two musicians and placed the precious opera manuscript on the table.

Outside in the square a shrill voice began to shout.

‘Rescued from the flames. Mistress Permay was planning to use it to light the kitchen range –’

The shouting became louder. Customers in the qaffë house crowded into the window to see what was amiss.

‘What in hell’s name is going on out there?’ Khassian got up from his chair.

‘S-s-soldiers!’