‘The singing. The singer.’ His voice was hoarse with excitement. ‘I have to know who it is.’ Without thinking, he thrust his hand forward to tug back the curtain. The fingers missed their grip, clumsily jarring against the tiled archway. Pain shot like lightning from finger-tips to shoulder; he squeezed his eyes shut, fighting for self-control.

Sister Crespine briskly whisked the curtain open a moment, glanced up the corridor, then shut it again.

‘You probably heard Demselle Magelonne. She’s working in the adjoining cubicle.’

‘Magelonne?’ A wave of sickness queased through his body. ‘The doctor’s daughter?’

‘Do lie down again, Illustre.’ Sister Crespine’s hand closed around his arm, coaxing him back towards the couch.

Orial Magelonne? How could she be singing his music? Did it mean that his triumphant apotheosis was nothing but a plagiarism of some existing work? The thought filled him with a deep and dragging sense of self-loathing. Had the fire so sapped his abilities that he could not even string together a series of notes without borrowing from some lesser composer?

Or – was there some other explanation?

‘I must talk to her.’ He reared up from the couch, only to be pressed gently back.

‘I can’t disturb her when she’s with a patient,’ Sister Crespine said firmly. ‘Dr Magelonne would not approve.’

By dusk Amaru Khassian reached the River Gardens. He was not sure how long he had been aimlessly wandering the streets and terraces of the city. Now the clear light was fading from the hillsides and birds were twittering in the branches as they fluttered and settled to roost.

The pleasure gardens were all but deserted now; the winding paths that led amongst bosky groves were lit by little lanterns to show the few remaining promenaders the way to the gates.

The evening air was fresh and damp; heavy dew was already soaking the grass parterres. Khassian found himself in front of a little temple in the antique style, neglected amongst the cypresses. Entering beneath the crumbling pediment, he saw that the walls were painted with murals.

Dragonflies darted in a frieze of faded water-blue and rush-green above a black stream where pale lotos floated. He hardly noticed them. One thought alone obsessed him.

So it had come to this. His compositional powers were so enfeebled, so wasted by the accident, that all he was capable of was plagiarism.

He must have heard the melody in the Sanatorium whilst he lay in fever – and assimilated it as his own. It was probably some current Sulien ditty with a crude refrain, sung in all the taverns and qaffë shops.

How else could the girl have been singing the very notes he had been thinking? The realisation filled him with a rank feeling of disgust.