‘The usual rheumatic complaints… neuralgia… and a stubborn case of gout. Nothing out of the ordinary, my dear.’ Dr Magelonne sighed. ‘We have to accept that the days of Sulien’s glory have passed. When I was a boy, the Prince’s father regularly crossed the borders to take the waters and all his court came too. But Ilsevir’s interests lie elsewhere. He doesn’t wish to while away his days in a fading spa resort.’

‘Poor Papa. Longing for a complex and challenging case… and obliged to pass your days curing fat gouty old gentlemen!’

‘Who all believe a couple of glasses of spa water a day will cure them. At least it gives me time to work on my treatise,’ he said abstractedly.

A bell jangled in the courtyard. Orial jumped up. The first patient of the day had arrived.

‘My cap. I’ve forgotten my cap.’ She went hurrying up the stairs to find the starched white cap and, standing in front of the mirror, attempted to pin it on straight.

It was three days now since Orial had experienced the vision of flames, and since then she had not returned to the Undercity. It was the first time she could remember feeling reluctant to go back. Most days she contrived to slip away unnoticed from the Sanatorium to her mother’s shrine for an hour or so. Only there could she practise the art which she had taught herself. The art which she loved above all other. The art forbidden to her.

Music.

So far she had contrived to keep her obsession secret. But of late she had begun to fear her fingers would betray her. She would find herself unconsciously tapping out the latest melody she had composed on the wall of the laundry room as she stood in the queue to collect warm towels. Or nimbly running figurations up and down the treatment slab as she waited to help peel away the hot mud packs from a patient. She could not stop. The music simply flowed from her as naturally as water flowed from the hot springs. It had become as much a part of her life as breathing. Concealing it from Papa was becoming more and more difficult. And she hated to have to resort to deception.

Up here in the cool Sulien daylight it was easy to rationalise what had happened. A dream. A waking dream. She must have become drowsy, practising down there in the dark, she must have nodded off for a few moments – and dreamed the fire, the flames, the searing pain.

It was foolish to stay away for fear of a vivid dream.

Towards four o’clock Dr Magelonne came out of his office with a letter in his hand. She saw her opportunity.

‘Shall I take that to the post for you, Papa?’

‘Thank you, my dear. I wouldn’t normally wish to remove you from your duties at the Sanatorium but this is important…’