‘Besides, the role of Elesstar was to be the greatest triumph of my career,’ Cramoisy went gliding away across the room, one hand upraised in a theatrical gesture, the other clasped to his breast. ‘The world must not be deprived of my definitive Elesstar because of a few canting fanatics.’

Khassian shook his head. The castrato’s chatter was wearying him; he knew Cramoisy was only trying to distract him in his own inimitable light-headed way. But he didn’t want distraction. Why didn’t anyone understand? He wanted to be alone. Alone to mourn the loss of his life’s work. Alone to mourn his spoiled dreams, his ruined future.

Orial could not rid her mind of Firildys’s air. It wove itself into her dreams, it wound obsessively round and around her brain until she felt she would go crazy with the repetition. When she extinguished the lamp and lay down to sleep, her fingers began to itch to play it on the cithara… but to venture out alone on to the streets of Sulien in the middle of the night required more courage than she could muster.

She lay in the darkness, her thoughts constantly straying to Amaru Khassian lying in his plain Sanatorium bed two floors below. Could he really be the creator of that elusive, poignant melody? An aching envy racked her, that he should have been fortunate enough to be given all the opportunities to develop his gift whilst everything she had learned, she had been obliged to teach herself in secret.

At first light she rose. Going to the washbasin, she poured water in and splashed her face until the cold water made her shudder.

She sat desultorily dragging a brush through her hair, wincing as the bristles tugged at the snarls.

She could not blame her father for depriving her of a musical training. If anyone was to be blamed, it was long-dead Iridial. If she had not died, Dr Magelonne would not have banished all music from the house. If…

Orial threw the brush down on the floor. ‘If, if, if. What’s the use of wishing? Wishing won’t bring her back.’

When she entered the morning room, she found her father reading the Sullen Chronicle.

‘Listen to this, my dear.’ He cleared his throat and began to read aloud:

‘“DISASTROUS FIRE DESTROYS OPERA HOUSE.

‘“Reports from Bel’Esstar, capital of Allegonde, tell of the destruction of the city’s Opera House. The blaze is believed to have started in the green room during a rehearsal and spread rapidly to all areas of the theatre. All of the company escaped with their lives although there were several casualties, amongst them the Illustre Amaru Khassian. The Commanderie has paid for the Illustre to go to Sulien to recuperate.”

‘Well! What are we to make of that?’ He folded the paper and cast it down upon the breakfast table.