‘It commemorates the miracle of the bleeding Rose. Mhir’s martyrdom. The three drops of blood that fell from the Rose that grew from the dead Prophet’s breast and restored Elesstar to life. The thorns represent the difficulties we encounter in our life’s journey; the three drops of blood, the three virtues: love, fidelity and –’

‘Yoo-hoo! Amaru!’ Cramoisy’s voice shrilled outside the room, shattering the moment’s strange, still intimacy. ‘Are you ready?’

Khassian let his hand drop back.

‘Another minute, miu caru!’

Acir could not help but notice the immediate alteration in his tone as he called to Cramoisy; the voice he had heard a few seconds earlier betrayed a different Khassian entirely – gentle and sensitive.

‘Pass me those clothes.’

Acir had handed him the warmed clothes and turned to look away as Khassian shrugged off the blanket. From the smothered grunts of effort he could tell that the composer was trying his best to dress himself. And only then did he realise that there was no way that Khassian would be able to do up the fastenings.

‘You’ll have to help me. If that’s not too demeaning for a member of the secret Order of the Rosecoeur? Or perhaps you’ve taken a vow forbidding you to touch other people’s clothing?’

‘Would you rather I called the Diva?’ Acir said, stung in spite of himself.

‘Good gracious, no. I’ll have to endure him fussing over me as he waits for me to develop a chill. Keep him away for a few moments longer.’

Acir turned around and saw that Khassian had managed to manoeuvre his arms through the shirt sleeves and wriggle into the breeches. The breeches however were flapping open.

This was no different, Acir told himself, from aiding a wounded confrère. He had stripped away blood-soiled, slashed uniforms, he had bathed and salved wounds, he had eased clean garments on over bandaged limbs.

And yet it was different. As he knelt beside the couch and leaned across to fasten the shirt ties, damp strands of his hair fell forward, brushing Khassian’s bare chest. The leather thong that usually confined his hair must have been lost in the river. He raised one hand to push it out of his eyes and saw that Khassian was looking at him. Firelight burnished red glints in Khassian’s water-tangled hair, glimmered in shadowed laughter in his eyes, at the corners of his mouth.

And it occurred to Acir that the composer was in some obscure way mocking him.

Only an hour or so ago he had covered that mocking mouth with his own, warmed it back to life with his own warmth, his own breath.

Angered, he snatched his hands away.

‘What’s the matter, Captain Korentan?’ Khassian’s voice was dark, fire-edged and dangerous. ‘Burned your fingers?’

Riverdreams.

Orial sank down, down beneath the black waters. Dark shapes, long and sinuous, snaked past her.

Drowning.