‘The Diva told us the Commanderie torched the Opera House.’ Orial picked up the pot to pour herself some qaffë.

‘But can we believe him? He has a penchant for self-dramatisation. Perhaps he concocted this tale to elicit our sympathy…’

‘And this version? Is it not equally likely to be propaganda put out by the Commanderie to cover their crime?’ Orial said vehemently.

‘You look a little pale, Orial. Have you been overtaxing yourself? And… I was probably mistaken… but I thought I heard you singing under your breath as you came down the stairs.’

‘Singing?’ Her hand shook, slopping her qaffë into the saucer. ‘Surely not? It must have been Cook. She forgets sometimes.’

He took out his fob watch and checked the hour.

‘I must go to take a look at our patients. See if they have passed a comfortable night. Take things easy this morning, my dear. I’ll arrange for Sister Crespine to cover your first duty.’

Orial shakily poured the spilt qaffë back into her cup. A few stray drops spattered the Sulien Chronicle. As she mopped them up with her handkerchief, she stopped, seized with a sudden inspiration.

The Chronicle. Surely they kept records of all that happened in Sulien at their office? Iridial’s death would not have passed unrecorded. Maybe there was some clue as to the cause of her mother’s demise in the obituary column. And her father had just excused her the first duty of the day…

Dr Magelonne frowned down at the day’s schedule.

He had not imagined it. Orial had been singing. In a low voice, soft and sweet, eerily reminiscent of Iridial’s. And she had not even been aware – or so she claimed – that she was doing it!

It could only be the influence of the Allegondan creature. Orial had become rather secretive of late, disappearing on errands that should only take five minutes but took much longer. He could trace this behaviour to the night Cramoisy Jordelayne and his companion made their dramatic entry into the Sanatorium.

Well, it would all stop now. Khassian was out of danger. His bills had been settled. He could return for therapeutic treatment, if he so wished. Or – and Dr Magelonne lifted his pen and dipped it in the inkwell – he could be referred to another clinic on the other side of the city. Yes. That might be for the best…

‘Dr Magelonne!’

The Diva swept into the office. Curse the man, was he psychic? The singer had dressed himself all in black: his chosen role for today, Magelonne guessed, was taken from tragic opera.