‘Yes,’ she said to her reflection as she tied on her bonnet, determinedly tugging the ribbons tight under her chin, ‘this is my chance, the only chance that may ever come my way. I have to take it.’

She went down the stairs and was just crossing the hall when the door to her father’s office opened. She froze.

‘Where are you off to, my dear?’ called Dr Magelonne.

‘Out… to take the air.’ She dared not turn around for fear he should see that she had blushed.

‘Such a fine day! A walk in the gardens is an excellent idea. Shall we go together?’

Together! Orial bit her lip, at a loss to know what to say. If she demurred, he would become suspicious. But if she was late for her appointment with Amaru Khassian…

‘I – I’d love to Papa. But –’

‘Doctor, you’re not busy, are you?’ Sister Crespine appeared, looking flustered. ‘I think you’d better take a look at General Talley’s gout. I suspect he’s been at the spirits again.’

Orial held her breath, hoping.

‘I’m so sorry, my dear.’ Dr Magelonne kissed her on the cheek. ‘Enjoy your walk. Maybe we can go tomorrow?’

Spring sunshine gilded the plaster cornices of the elegant Crescent salon, glinted in the glass of the oval mirrors. Orial saw that Khassian was standing staring out of the tall windows; he did not even turn around as Cramoisy brought her forward.

‘Orial, this is His Excellency the Illustre, Amaru Khassian.’ Cramoisy took Orial by the arm and led her forward. ‘Illustre – Demselle Orial Magelonne.’

Orial, well-trained in etiquette at the Academie, dipped a curtsey. When she raised her head she saw that Amaru Khassian was regarding her with a guarded air. She knew at once that he was bitterly sceptical, that he had already dismissed the whole plan as hopeless. And this realisation gave her a sudden surge of defiant energy. How dare he prejudge her? Was he too proud to accept her help – even if it was that of a mere novice?

‘Demselle Magelonne.’ He cleared his throat, evidently as ill at ease as she was. ‘It is – generous of you to offer your help in this way. I hesitate to ask this of you – but if we are to proceed, would you be so kind as to seat yourself at this desk and transcribe a few notes for me?’

Cramoisy ushered Orial to the desk and patted her arm reassuringly. Stave paper, rulers, pens and ink were neatly laid out.

‘What shall I write?’ she asked.

Khassian went back to the window and leaned his arm against the pane in what seemed to Orial an attitude of weary melancholy.

‘I’m rehearsing a simple four-bar melody. Shall I tell you the pitch it begins on?’

‘No.’ Orial shook her head, concentrating. ‘It’s bémol…‘