‘Just imagine, Amar,’ Cramoisy leaned close to him, his breath warm on Khassian’s face, ‘the opera coming to life again, here in Sulien. You already have Valentan for the peace-bringer, Mhir. And you have your Elesstar here beside you. If other musicians can make it across the mountains, we can put a cast together –’

‘But the girl. Orial. Suppose she doesn’t want to do it? It will mean days, weeks, months of transcription. And if her father is so opposed to her coming into contact with music…’ Khassian struggled to express the doubts that had already arisen in his mind. ‘It seems – wrong, Cramoisy. To ask her to disobey her father.’

Father. The word still stirred unhappy memories: bitter words, slammed doors, letters returned unopened…

‘After all I’ve done for you. All I’ve given up for you, Amar. My whole life dedicated to the furthering of your career, your talents, to treat me so shabbily. My own son!’

‘Let me talk to her. She’s eighteen, old enough to make up her own mind about the matter.’

‘Maybe.’

‘And no more silly suicide attempts, caru?‘

Silly. Khassian winced at the word. Was that how Cramoisy saw it? The petulant gesture of a child who can’t get what he wants? There had been nothing petulant about the grey clouds of despair that had enveloped him, leeching all colour from the world.

‘Promise me.’ Cramoisy nuzzled his cheek, skin soft as rose-velvet against the unshaven stubble.

He nodded his head, wishing the Diva would leave him alone.

‘Tried to drown himself?’ Orial repeated, wide-eyed. She set down her bowl of tea and stared in alarm at the Diva.

The tea-shop echoed to the tinkle of cutlery and a low murmur of discreet conversation.

Cramoisy nodded – though not too vigorously. He was sporting an elaborately curled powdered wig of a construction as frothily light as the cream-filled pastries piled on the plate in front of him. Orial noticed that the wig had already occasioned several envious glances from the ladies of Sulien.

‘Not a word of it to anyone, Orial. He was in such deep, deep despair.’

‘Because of his hands?’

‘Exactly so.’ Cramoisy helped himself to a second meringue.

‘How terrible.’ Orial stared at the pastry which lay untouched on her own plate. She saw again the shambling figure of Amaru Khassian in the Sanatorium corridor, saw the pale face, the daemon-haunted eyes.

‘And I fear he may try again – he can be so stubborn once he sets his heart on something – unless we can prevent him.’

‘We?’ Orial echoed. ‘You mean I could help?’

‘Mmm.’ Cramoisy’s rouged mouth was full of meringue; he lifted his napkin and delicately dabbed the traces of whipped cream from his lips. Orial saw the red rouge-stain on the white linen.