‘Look.’ He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a pencil and paper. He gripped the stub of pencil and clumsily, painstakingly, began to trace out clefs. She watched his face as he worked, saw how the muscles in his cheeks were drawn taut, how every fibre of his body strained to control the movement of his hand.

‘See?’ He stopped with a gasp of exertion. ‘It’s damnably slow – but I’m getting there, Orial, I’m getting there.’

‘It’s… very good.’

All her hopes, so swiftly raised, were dashed again.

‘If I persevere, there’s a chance I might get something scribbled down that Azare can transcribe.’

‘So… you won’t be needing me any more.’

‘As amanuensis? It would be selfish of me to ask you to fritter your life away transcribing my music – when you have music of your own to write.’

‘You’re just saying that because – because you don’t want me.’

He reached out across the table to touch her hands with his own.

‘No. I’ve had time to reflect on our encounters – our musical encounters.’ His hands tightened around hers and she felt a new strength in the fingers. ‘The way I compose is so different from yours, Orial. Forcing you to think my way, to write my way, was wrong. You have to find your own voice, unhindered by my music. Can’t you see?’

She shook her head; her eyes had filled with tears.

‘Then why are you here?’ she said in a whisper.

He reached into his breast pocket and drew out a card edged in gold.

‘What is this?’ she said in a whisper, taking it.

‘Read it.’

The Demselle Orial Magelonne is cordially invited to attend the first performance of the newly revised opera Elesstar by Amaru Khassian to be given at the Orangery in the Winter Palace.

She looked up from the smooth white invitation and saw his eyes.

‘The opera – our opera.’

‘Prince Ilsevir has requested three performances to be staged in the theatre in the Palace Orangery. All the performers will be handsomely remunerated – which may go some way towards making reparation for so many ruined lives.’

‘Such a change of heart.’ She tried to gulp back her tears. Selfish, really, to be thinking of herself when so many had been brought to the brink of despair.

‘Ilsevir is greatly changed since Girim’s death. He often asks me to tell him about Acir… and about you.’

‘Me?’ Orial said, confused.

‘None of this could have taken place if it had not been for you, Orial,’ he said softly. ‘Your courage gave me the strength to write the opera anew. Please say you’ll come and see it? Cramoisy will be mortally offended if you don’t see him give the performance of his life.’

Orial broke away from him and went to the window, gazing out over the grey-green hills, the terraces and crescents of weathered rose-stone.