‘And you, Captain Korentan, you leapt in to rescue him. What a hero!’

The castrato seemed charged with the excitement of the situation, his gestures and voice too large for the little parlour.

‘The clothes, Cramoisy,’ Khassian said wearily. ‘Have you brought the clothes?’

‘Heavens, yes. And Mistress Permay’s making a nourishing barley soup for you.’

Acir cleared his throat. It pained him to have to make the request, but he could not think of any alternative course of action.

‘Diva, if I might borrow a pair of breeches and a shirt… I will have them laundered and returned to you on the morrow.’

‘You have no other clothes with you, Captain?’

The Diva would not know, of course, of the vow of poverty he had made.

‘We travel light in the Commanderie.’

‘And it wouldn’t do for you to wander the streets of Sulien naked beneath a blanket?’ The castrato tweaked teasingly at the edge of Acir’s blanket; horrified, he took a step backwards and sat down rather suddenly on the couch. Cramoisy laughed and turned away. ‘How fortuitous that I gathered several items of clothing of Khassian’s with me. I thought he might be cold.’

‘Fortunate, Cramoisy,’ Khassian said quietly. ‘Fortunate.’

‘Whatsoever,’ Cramoisy said, ignoring him as he pulled out shirts, breeches, socks, and laid them on the fender to warm. ‘There you are.’

Cramoisy stood looking at Acir expectantly. It was only then that he realised the castrato intended him to get dressed in front of him. Acir felt his face burning – and not from the heat of the fire.

‘Why this modesty, Captain? I’m an old trouper, well used to cramped dressing rooms in provincial theatres. D’you think I haven’t seen it all before?’

‘Cramoisy,’ Khassian said warningly. ‘Go and give my thanks to the good people who have sheltered us. Some remuneration would be appropriate in the circumstances…’

Cramoisy paused a moment. Then, shooting a venomous glance at Khassian, he left the room, slamming the door.

Acir turned away from Khassian and, in the shadows, shed his blanket to pull on a pair of breeches. As he turned back into the light of the flames for a shirt, he saw Khassian regarding him with curiosity.

‘What is that?‘

Khassian was staring at his bare chest. Acir glanced down and felt a flush of heat sear his face again.

‘A battle-scar?’

‘What, this?’ Acir touched the tattoo that covered his left breast, suddenly self-conscious. ‘The mark of the Order of the Rosecoeur.’ He tugged the shirt on, hastily covering it.

‘No. Let me see.’

Acir found himself uncovering the sacred mark to show the composer. Perhaps if he could explain his devotion to Mhir he might win Khassian over…

Khassian raised one damaged hand as if he wanted to touch the dye-stained skin…

‘A black-thorned rose… what are these three crimson spots, what do they signify?’