He did not share Cramoisy’s confidence in Orial Magelonne’s gift. The girl was so young, so inexperienced. Even if she possessed a telepathic ability to hear the music in his mind, he suspected she would not have the musical skills to notate it accurately.

‘What! Still abed?’ The Diva came in and dragged open the heavy swagged velvet curtains. Khassian turned his face away from the dazzling daylight. ‘It’s past noon! And are you to be still abed when Orial arrives? Look at you – unshaven, undressed. The valet tells me you’d have none of his help! Must I do everything for you?’

‘I want you to cancel this meeting with Demselle Magelonne,’ Khassian said, slowly swinging his legs over the side of the bed. ‘There’s no point. It’s not going to work.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ Cramoisy continued to bustle about the room, pouring water into the wash-basin, gathering up brushes, razors, towels, in readiness. He patted the chair, inviting Khassian to sit down before the mirror.

‘The mother. Iridial. Maybe if she were still alive, she could have helped me –’

Cramoisy smoothed shaving lather on to Khassian’s cheeks.

‘Iridial is dead, Iel rest her soul. Her early death was a tragedy and heaven knows what killed her off so young – some said it was a chill on the lungs… But the daughter lives and she wants to help you.’

‘Help me!’ The word was distasteful to Khassian; it smacked of genteel charitable work and condescension.

‘This is the last time I do this for you.’ With short, deft strokes the castrato drew the razor across Khassian’s cheeks, complaining all the while. ‘I pay good money for Mistress Permay’s nephew to be your valet – and you send him away!’ He wiped off the last of the lather with a flourish and slapped on some bay lotion; Khassian’s eyes watered with its aromatic sting.

‘At least give the girl a chance.’ Cramoisy seized a brush and began to tug it through Khassian’s tangled hair.

He caught sight of his reflection; caught the dull, weary glint of despair in his eyes.

‘It won’t work,’ he said.

Orial sat on her bed, hastily turning over and over the worn pages of her mother’s Treatise, trying to remind herself of all she had learned. How inadequate a training it seemed, now that she was to be put to the test by a real musician.

A pang of fear fluttered in her stomach. The flaws in her knowledge could so easily be exposed. She shut the Treatise and clutched it to her like a talisman.

‘Isn’t this what I’ve always wanted?’ she whispered to herself as she knelt to put the book back in its hiding place. ‘A chance to prove myself?’

The fluttering surged again, charged with exhilaration.