‘So I’m to keep myself alive to further our cause? Even though I’m useless. I can’t hold a sword, fire a pistol –’

Cramoisy flung himself on his knees beside him.

‘You mustn’t give up, Amar. If you lose hope, how will the rest of us carry on?’

‘There’s no point in carrying on. I’m no use to anyone. I can’t compose.’

‘But with an amanuensis –’

Why couldn’t Cramoisy understand? Suddenly it all came spilling out, all the hopelessness, the despair.

‘I thought I had found the will to compose again – Elesstar’s duet. And today I heard one of the nurses singing the tune in the Sanatorium. Singing it aloud!’

‘Which nurse?’ Cramoisy asked.

‘The girl who found us. Magelonne’s child. Can’t you see, Cramoisy? I’d been deluding myself. I hadn’t composed anything new at all, I must have cribbed the tune from a common street ballad.’

‘Orial Magelonne was singing one of your tunes?’ said Cramoisy.

‘I felt so cheap. So worthless. Elesstar’s final duet – filched from some tawdry tavern song.’

‘Amar. Listen to me.’ Cramoisy cupped Khassian’s face in his hands, suddenly earnest, the tragic mask of Flamilla abandoned. ‘Think back. Had you been rehearsing the tune in your mind that morning?’

‘But I don’t see what relevance –’

‘Think, Amar!’ Cramoisy’s finger-tips pressed into his cheeks.

‘Well, I might have been… maybe I was…’

‘Have you noticed her eyes?’

‘What have her eyes got to do with this?’

‘She’s her mother’s daughter. She has a gift, Amar. A gift that could save your life.’

‘For God’s sake explain, Cramoisy.’

‘She’s – different. And she doesn’t know it yet. Rainbow eyes, Amar. I told you her mother was an exceptional musician, didn’t I? They are descendants of a race of musicians. I sang her Firildys’s arioso – and she sang it back to me, note for note. And she had never heard it before in her life.’

‘So? My father taught me to do the same,’ Khassian said dismissively. ‘With discipline, children can develop remarkable memory skills.’

‘And can they also hear the music in your mind?’

Khassian gave a sceptical snort.

‘Oh, come now, Cramoisy.’

‘Her mother Iridial could.’

‘Musical telepathy? What kind of crazed fantasy did this Iridial spin you? To hear the music in other people’s minds… it would send you mad.’

‘Don’t you understand? You didn’t filch the tune. She learned it from you.’

‘You’re saying that Orial Magelonne could be my amanuensis? That she could transcribe what’s up here –’ Khassian nodded his head, ‘– directly into written manuscript?’

‘She’d need some training. From what I understand, she’s self-taught. The good doctor has expressly forbidden her to take any kind of music lessons. But talent will out…’

‘Ach, Cramoisy, this is like some bizarre faery tale. And I don’t believe in faeries.’