Freshly baked buns, yellow and fragrant with saffron, steamed in the basket; she split one and spread it liberally with butter, watching the butter melt into the warm dough before taking a bite. The fun was in wondering when your teeth would crunch into the knob of sticky loaf sugar hidden in the golden centre of the bun. She watched her father reach for a bun, split it, butter it, eat it – and all without once looking up from his Sulien Chronicle. A smile began to twitch at the corners of her lips. How did he manage it?

‘Singular,’ Dr Magelonne muttered. ‘Very singular.’

‘What is so very singular, Papa?’ Orial rose and refilled his cup with qaffë, then leaned over his shoulder to scan the columns of black print.

‘This wave of piety sweeping through our neighbours in Allegonde, both the capital and the court. We shall not see Prince Ilsevir in Sulien this season; it says he has been miraculously cured by praying to the Blessed Mhir – and in consequence, has abandoned his life of pleasure to devote himself to matters of the spirit.

‘Apparently he has ordered all the opera houses and theatres to be shut down. Not before time, in my opinion. Opera’s a mindless, vacuous entertainment, fit only for those stupid enough to part with their money.’

‘Opera,’ Orial echoed wistfully.

‘And wholly unsuitable for young girls of an impressionable nature!’ Dr Magelonne said sharply. Orial retreated, nodding resignedly. This was an argument she would never win – and she had learned long ago not to pursue it with her father.

It was well known in the Sanatorium why Dr Magelonne vehemently resented any mention of music. When Orial’s mother Iridial died, he had forbidden the playing of any music in the house. Orial understood. He had worshipped Iridial, who had lived and breathed music. Her death had almost destroyed him. The very sound of music would surely provoke memories too painful to be endured, so not one note was to be heard in the Sanatorium and there were no music lessons for Orial. Indeed, at her father’s express wish, she had been given different tasks to occupy her at the Academie for Young Ladies whilst the other pupils received instruction in musical accomplishments. Yet whilst Orial dutifully plied her embroidery needle or dabbed at a water colour, she’d often caught strains rising from the music room below. And, oh, how she’d yearned to join in that distant sweet harmony…

‘At least we are a more phlegmatic people than our hot-headed neighbours.’ Dr Magelonne drank down the last of his qaffë and neatly folded the newspaper. ‘There is always some kind of ferment seething in Bel’Esstar. Let us trust they do not try to bring their religious fervour over the mountains.’

‘So what is to be done today?’ Orial asked, returning the conversation to more neutral ground.