Her heart pounded a wild jig against her ribs. She sat back, one hand on her breast, trying to control its leaping beats.

‘Steady, Tradescar,’ she murmured. ‘It could be a fake. A forgery. No point having a seizure over a trifle.’

It could be a fake – but it could also be the petition of a long-dead worshipper from the Dark Age, child of an Allegondan-Lifhendil union. Certes, such children had been born. She let out a dragging sigh: little Orial was living proof of that.

And if it was what she hoped – maybe she had at last found the key to the lost language of the Lifhendil.

The faint script dimmed before her eyes. The room grew suddenly dark; shadows loomed across her vision. Pain burst in her chest, bright as an arrowstar. Her hands fumbled over the desk for her enamelled box of pills. Shakily, she opened the lid, picked one out and popped it under her tongue.

‘Easy now. Easy.’

She leant back in her chair, waiting for the flaring pain to fizzle out.

This faulty heart was becoming a damn nuisance. Always letting her down just when she needed it. The doctors had told her to retire. Maybe they had a point…

Chronicle journalese flickered through her mind: ‘Eminent scholar found dead in Museum. It is believed that Dr Tradescar was on the brink of a remarkable discovery. Her sudden death robbed us of the enlightenment…’

‘No other scholar is going to get their hands on this! It’s mine. I’ve waited a lifetime for this.’

And there was Orial to consider. Her soul-child. Orial was rapidly maturing – soon she would come into her full Lifhendil inheritance. The musical gifts to ravish and delight – and then the madness. Jolaine had to save her. She had to try. Maybe her theory was crackbrained, the ramblings of a crazy old academic. But suppose – just suppose she was right and the Lifhendil stelae held the key to the Accidie?

Khassian lay on the striped couch whilst Cramoisy paced to and fro. The Diva was twisting a lace handkerchief agitatedly between his fingers. The situation was, Khassian realised, curiously reminiscent of Flamilla’s scena in the opera The Fires of Fate.

He knew Cramoisy was waiting for him to speak. To give him an explanation. But he would not explain himself – not to the Diva or anyone else.

‘How could you do it?’ The Diva’s voice trembled with tears of accusation. ‘Just – throw your life away! When we have all worked so hard to save you? It’s so – so selfish!‘

Khassian stared through him.

‘Oh, don’t go on pretending it was an accident. I know what you were about. I found the smashed bottle of opiate on the floor in your room. When that failed, you decided to drown yourself. If Korentan hadn’t fished you out, you’d be dead – and what good would that do our cause?’