‘I’m to be married!’ Alizaeth said with a squeal of self-satisfaction. ‘In four days’ time. There’s to be a banquet at the Rooms. I’d have asked you to be one of my maidens, but Alyn – that’s his name, he’s training to be an advocate – has so many sisters and female cousins…’

Orial nodded, smiling, starting to edge away. She must escape before Alizaeth started to tell her the wedding plans.

‘I’d love to talk, but I’m late for an appointment. Some other time –’

‘Don’t you want to hear about my gown?’

‘Oh yes, yes…’ Orial backed down the mews, trying to sound enthusiastic.

‘Orchid white silk, with an overlayer of gauze net –’

‘You’ll look ravishing,’ Orial cried, turning on her heel and running.

‘I’ll tell Mama to send you an invitation,’ Alizaeth called after her.

As Orial darted away, she experienced a sudden moment of self-revelation. A few weeks ago, she would have felt hurt to learn that Alizaeth had not bothered to invite her to be her wedding-maiden. But since Cramoisy and Khassian had arrived, she had not once thought of Alizaeth or her schooldays. She had been transported into a world more magical, more dangerous, than anything she could have imagined. There was more to life than an orchid silk gown and a wedding banquet at the Assembly Rooms.

‘You’re late,’ Khassian said accusingly.

‘I was – unavoidably detained.’ Orial untied her cape and flung it over the couch.

‘I’ve been looking over what you wrote down yesterday.’ He seemed restless, irritable. ‘There are errors of notation.’

She checked the retort that had sprung to her lips for she could sense he was in pain. An echo of the dull ache in his damaged hands resonated in her own fingers.

‘I’ll correct them,’ she said quickly.

He nodded tersely.

‘Is – anything else amiss?’

‘Nothing.’ He turned away from her.

She picked up her pen and had just opened the inkwell to check that it was full when she heard him speak again.

‘How dare he accuse me of such a thing? How dare he presume to know me, know my most intimate thoughts and intentions!’

‘I’m sorry?’ She was uncertain whether he was muttering to himself or to her.

‘Elesstar’s aria. Where is it?’

She shuffled through the sheets and brought it out to show him.

‘Read it again. Tell me if you think it is blasphemous.’

She gazed quizzically up at him, wondering what had provoked this outburst. He seemed distressed, his face contorted with suppressed anger. It would be best to humour him. She lifted the sheets and began to scan them rapidly; in her mind the raw passion of Elesstar’s grief was reawakened, clothed in the sombre colours of Khassian’s twisted harmonies. The music was strong, impassioned, sincere – and, to her untrained ears, difficult.

‘Well?’ he demanded impatiently. ‘Has it corrupted you?’