‘And of course the Diva must satisfy the demands of his public, he must give freely of his talents, he must sing, sing, sing –’

‘Who do you think is paying for our food and board? Someone has to earn a little money to ensure we are not cast out into the streets as penniless vagrants next week.’

‘Just get me the pencil, Cramoisy,’ Khassian said between gritted teeth.

Cramoisy started up from the escritoire and flounced from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Khassian had been too angry to hear clearly what the Diva was saying. He was vaguely aware he had offended him, wounded his feelings. And Cramoisy could be vicious when offended – as his rivals in the Opera House could testify.

Soon afterwards the vocal exercises began. The Diva adopted a bright, piercing quality, over-emphasising the vibrato. Cramoisy knew Khassian particularly hated him to employ that technique for the composer had spent long hours coaching him in the use of a more subtle, expressive method of sustaining the tone. But the castrato had never forgotten how to dazzle an audience – and with his supreme breath control, he could dazzle as no other singer could.

Now the Diva was doing it expressly to annoy him.

Each scale dinned into Khassian’s aching head like a shower of silver nails until he could bear it no longer.

He stumbled into the morning room where Cramoisy stood as if on stage, hands formally clasped above his waist. The force of the sound, glossily shrill, made Khassian flinch.

‘Cramoisy. Please.’

The Diva glared at him.

‘I’m busy.’ He began the next arpeggio; the notes seemed to rend the air with violent slashes of colour: shrieking yellow, skirling lightning-blue.

‘Look – I’m – I’m sorry I shouted at you.’ Khassian struggled to make himself heard above the rising arpeggios. ‘It was – insensitive of me.’

‘Yes. It was very insensitive.’ Cramoisy paused for breath.

‘If you could stop –’

‘And why, pray, should I stop? I must sing, sing, sing, remember?’

‘I have a headache.’

It was the plaint of a fractious child; the castrato hesitated but Khassian could see that this appeal to his sympathy had won.

‘You great baby.’ Cramoisy went to his reticule and took out a black bottle, pouring a measure into a glass. ‘Here.’ He held the little glass to Khassian’s lips. ‘Drink up, there’s a good boy.’

The bitter dark liquid was smooth as syrup. One measure too many… and he would slip into that cold, endless sleep where his stillborn children, his unfinished works, would no longer torment him.

‘Please, Cramoisy,’ Khassian whispered, grimacing at the bitter taste of the medicine, ‘get me some pencils?’

Whirling lines of music still tormented him, weaving in and out of his brain, unable to find resolution or release. He could not sleep for the clamour of the unfinished work that demanded to be completed.