‘No, no. Not late.’

A little later, the Sister whispered to her in passing, ‘Who is he?’

Orial looked at her blankly.

‘I promise I won’t breathe a word to your father, but I can tell. There’s a glow about you. It always shows.’ She gave Orial a conspiratorial little nudge and a wink.

Astonished, Orial found herself nodding in reply.

A glow? As she passed the mirror she sneaked a glance at herself. Then she stopped and looked with more attention. Was it a trick of the light or had her eyes darkened again? And were those striations of topaz, striping the blue – the intense gold of the spring crocuses she had walked amongst on the Crescent lawns?

Passing the open kitchen door, she heard Sister murmuring to Cook, ‘Have you seen our little Orial? She’s growing up fast. Radiant. Quite radiant.’

And Cook, growling back a terse reply.

‘That was how her mother was. Before.’

The Museum office was cluttered with rubbish. Empty mugs, stained with a dirty dried sediment of qaffë grounds, lined the windowsills and a faint odour of stale candlesmoke hung in the air.

‘Jolaine?’ Orial called.

Open notebooks lay strewn everywhere, showing meticulous sketches, line drawings of the Under Temple stelae and their hieroglyph inscriptions. The lifetime’s work of a scholar.

And then Orial saw her.

Dame Jolaine Tradescar lay slumped over one of the open notebooks, her head on her arm, her wig tipped awry.

At first she lay so still, Orial thought she was dead.

Given Dame Jolaine’s advanced years, this was, Orial allowed, a possibility – and yet her soul-guardian had always seemed indestructible, the one constant in her life on which she could rely.

Orial crept forwards… and as she came nearer, the Antiquarian sighed and let out a rattling snore.

She had fallen asleep at her desk.

Orial knelt beside Dame Jolaine and gently tried to replace the wig. Her scalp beneath was shinily pink, still tufted here and there with straggling white hairs.

‘Jolaine,’ Orial said again, close to her ear.

‘Eh? What?’ Jolaine Tradescar opened her eyes and stared blearily at her. ‘Dear me, I must have nodded off for a few moments there.’

‘More than a few moments! Have you been taking care of yourself? Have you been remembering to eat?’

Jolaine sat up, adjusting her wig.

‘What hour is it?’

‘Past ten.’

‘Dear me. Dear me. More than a few moments, then.’

‘Shall I go fetch you some breakfast from the pastry shop?’

‘There’s no need to fuss over me, child, I can look after myself,’ Dame Jolaine said tetchily. Then she leaned across and patted Orial’s hand. ‘Been so busy here, I seem to have lost track of the hours… the days…’

Orial regarded Jolaine anxiously as the Antiquarian stood up and slowly stretched.