Orial stepped out into the lane. The Accidie. She had grown up in a Sanatorium, her father was a doctor, she had heard him and his colleagues use innumerable medical terms… and yet this one was unfamiliar to her. And why use an ancient term in a contemporary journal?

Dr Magelonne’s study was lined from floor to ceiling with books of medicine and bound journals. Orial tiptoed inside, after first checking the corridor to make sure that no one had seen her come in. Her father was down in the treatment rooms, overseeing the first immersion of an elderly dowager crippled with rheumatism. Rheumatism was his speciality; he had written several papers on the subject and Orial was confident he would be busy for at least a quarter of an hour.

Dr Magelonne’s obsession with order revealed itself in the meticulously organised shelves. Everything in its proper place, every shelf labelled: ‘Anatomy’, ‘Rheums and Phthisis’, ‘Gout and its Treatments’.

Where to begin? An ancient malady might be found in an ancient tome… She pulled out the most decrepit volume she could see and started to check its yellowed pages.

‘Orial!’

The book fell to the floor. Her father stood in the doorway.

‘Sorry, Papa.’ She dipped down and hastily retrieved the book, slotting it back in place, standing with her back to the shelf.

‘Don’t apologise. It’s good to see you so interested in your work. When it comes to treating the frailties of the human body, one can never do too much research.’ He came towards her. ‘What were you looking up?’

‘Oh – oh, nothing important.’ Her hands were shaking; she hid them behind her back.

‘You can always ask me. You know that, don’t you?’ He drew her to him, gazing earnestly into her eyes. ‘I’m afraid I must seem somewhat preoccupied at present, Orial. My work takes up so much of my time. I want you to know that you can always come to me… and ask me anything.’

He kissed her on the forehead, his lips smooth and dry.

Anything, Papa… but the one thing I want to know.

CHAPTER 4

Acir Korentan strode past the elegant boutiques of Sulien on his way to the poste restante.

The trays in the baker’s were piled high with elaborate confections of spun sugar, choux pastry and whipped cream – but where was the bread? Wholesome, honest bread, ballast for an empty stomach. True hunger could not be assuaged with such airy trifles.

Everywhere he looked, he saw triviality. The elaborately dressed wigs in the coiffeurs, the ambered scents drifting from the perfumiers, the qaffë houses in which so many seemed to idle away their days in gossip. Sulien was as hollow at the heart as one of the patissier’s choux confections.