As she had hoped, the Museum was deserted at this early hour. She moved between the dusty glass cases, unable to restrain herself from stopping to gaze at one of her favourite displays. They glittered beneath the glass, their delicate wings an iridescent mosaic of tiny fragments of enamel and coloured glass.

Dragonflies.

The insect appeared on countless carvings and artefacts excavated from the remains of the Old City. Even then the dragonfly had evidently possessed some deep significance for the city-builders – though when it had become incorporated into the religious beliefs of the people of Sulien, no one seemed sure.

‘Such exquisite craftsmanship,’ said a voice behind her, a voice creaking rustily from lack of use.

‘Jolaine!’

‘You’ve always been fascinated by my dragonflies, haven’t you?’ She came limping down the aisle between the cases towards Orial, leaning heavily on her stick. ‘When you were little, you had to stand on tiptoe to peer in. I can see you still, such a solemn, wan little mouse. Look at you now – quite the young demselle.’

Orial felt herself blushing.

‘And look at you,’ she said, countering the teasing. ‘Your knee’s troubling you again, isn’t it? You must come into the Sanatorium and –’

‘Ach!’ Dame Tradescar waved one hand dismissively. ‘Just a twinge from the morning’s damp. I’ll be fine by lunchtime. By tea you’ll see me down at the Assembly Rooms cutting as fine a caper in the cotillion as any of the young demselles.’

Orial began to laugh in spite of herself.

‘That’s better, hm?’ said her soul-guardian. ‘You were looking quite dejected. Now, tell me, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?’

Orial slipped her hand through Jolaine’s arm and together they went towards her study.

‘There. Sit yourself down. Have I shown you this little beauty, hm? Found by a labourer digging a new drainage trench for the Nymphs’ Bath, buried in the clay silt. It’s been the devil to clean – but look at it now.’

As Jolaine bent over her, Orial could not help but notice that her fantastical wig seemed more motheaten than before and her hands trembled slightly as they unwrapped the treasure from its cloth covering.

A bronze brooch appeared, penannular; tiny lunar hares coursed around crescent moons in an intricately interwoven knot, picked out in scarlet enamel. Scarlet and bronze. The colours glowed as if they had been fired the day before… not hundreds upon hundreds of years.

‘Oh!’ Orial carefully turned it over, holding it to the light. ‘It’s – beautiful.’

‘Quite a fascinating little horde. If I hadn’t dug further down in the trench these artefacts would have been lost forever.’ Jolaine pointed to a glass trough filled with a mud-clouded liquid.

‘More treasures?’ Orial wrapped the brooch up in its cloth.