‘Go away, Amar,’ groaned Cramoisy, drawing the sheet up over his face.

‘Please. I’m going crazy. It’s the finale. Elesstar’s transfiguration scene. It was weak, unsatisfying. Now I know how to improve it!’

‘Elesstar?’ The sheet slid down an inch or so, revealing two jet eyes, staring avariciously up at him. ‘My role?’

‘Your role, Cramoisy. You have to write it down.’

‘At this hour? You know I never rise before nine.’

‘You’ll never have a better role. It’s written for you. I know your voice better than any other composer in the whole of Allegonde, you’ve said so yourself. Help me get the music on paper – before I lose it forever!’

‘Oh… very well.’ Cramoisy yawned. ‘Give me five minutes.’

Khassian paced outside the door, his feet moving in time to the insistent pulse of music in his head.

Five minutes stretched to ten, fifteen, twenty. At length the Diva appeared, draped in a peignoir of celadon silk, his brilliant hair loose about his shoulders, a portrait of studied artlessness. Khassian could not bear to imagine the lengths the castrato had gone to to achieve the effect.

‘You said five minutes.’

Cramoisy gave a little sigh, seated himself at the escritoire and began to fuss with the pens, nibs, ink bottle.

‘Cramoisy –’ Khassian growled.

‘There now!’ Cramoisy flashed him a glittering smile. ‘I’m ready.’

It would have been a tedious business even if Khassian could have demonstrated at the keyboard what he intended. As it was he found himself obliged to enumerate each note, how long it lasted, where it lay in the octave compass. The process was so laborious that the notes kept wreathing out of his grasp, evanescent as woodsmoke.

‘Si bemol. Dotted crotchet then ut, re –’

‘When you say si bemol, Amar, is it the higher octave or –’

Khassian let out a roar of frustration.

Cramoisy flung down the pen, ink spattering the page.

‘You singers are all alike!’ Khassian cried. ‘Not one ounce of musical theory in your empty brains!’

‘And you are quite impossible, Amaru Khassian! I’m doing my best!’

‘You call this your best? Two smudged lines of stave paper?’

‘No one could keep up with your dictation! You need a transcription machine.’

‘I could do better with a pencil between my teeth!’

‘Then you can try with a pencil between your teeth! For I won’t write another note for you, Illustre. Not one.’

‘Very well,’ Khassian said, trying to control his temper. ‘Get me a pencil. Well-sharpened.’

‘A sharpened pencil? Do you think I have nothing better to do than run your errands all day? I have visits to make, calls to pay in the city.’

‘How insensitive of me. I quite forgot. Of course your social diary must take precedence over my music!’

‘If you must know, I am going to try to arrange a series of recitals at the Assembly Rooms,’ Cramoisy said in tones of chill disdain.