Amaru Khassian had chosen to interpret these words as literally as any sensation-seeking crowd-pleaser would have done. Girim had told Acir that the opera required Mhir and Elesstar to be seen to come together – physically – on the stage. Acir found the thought of the castrato – and another man – play-acting physical consummation utterly repellent. It reduced Mhir’s transcendent love – Acir’s inspiration and his life’s pattern – to a mere shudder of lust, contrived to titillate the jaded palates of the opera audience.

At the heart of the scripture was Elesstar: Elesstar the slave, the Shultan’s concubine, whose love for Mhir redeemed her of her past sins. Elesstar’s redemption was the essential metaphor illuminating the Thorny Path.

Khassian had spoken disparagingly, cynically, of miracles. But then he had reduced the miracle of Elesstar’s resurrection to an acted charade, a mere theatrical device: a puff of smoke, a clap of a thunder board, a crash of the cymbals. He had robbed it of its mystery – and its meaning. Small wonder he could not begin to imagine the true power of the metaphor.

‘If the sinner Elesstar could be saved – transfigured – by the Blood of the Rose,’ Girim had cried to the assembled Commanderie, ‘then have faith that you too can be saved!’

The damp seemed to be seeping into Acir’s bones, oozing from dank cedar boughs. The darkness of the deserted glade only enhanced his morose mood; his task seemed impossible. Amaru Khassian was damaged in spirit as well as in body – yet too proud to ask for his help.

Maybe Fiammis was right. Maybe he should have let the composer drown. Maybe he should not have striven so hard to warm the limp body back to life with his own breath. Khassian had seemed so set on self-destruction. Maybe he should admit defeat, return to Bel’Esstar and let Fiammis finish the job for him –

‘No!’ Acir cried aloud. He sprang to his feet and began to pace the glade, feet squelching in the wet moss.

He did not like to acknowledge the fact but ever since he had breathed the life back into the half-drowned Khassian, he had felt in some intangible way… connected to the man.

Steam clouded the tiled walls of the Sanatorium pool, misting Orial’s lenses. Annoyed, she took off her spectacles and, for the third time that morning, wiped them on her apron. Blinking, she gazed around at the ceramic tiles: the familiar blue and green motifs of whorled shells and water-lilies were still blurred. She examined the spectacle lenses again – but they were clean, clear of the smudging moisture.

Is my sight deteriorating? Do I need stronger lenses? Maybe I should consult Papa.

But then he might ask her what she had been doing to strain her eyes, he might wonder what kind of close work would cause such a deterioration. Close work such as the intricate notation of music –

No, best not to mention it to Papa.