‘Corrupted, Illustre?’ She did not understand what he meant.

‘You observe that I have twisted the holy texts, I have distorted their meaning.’

‘How can a piece of music such as this corrupt?’

‘And yet, for writing this, they call me a blasphemer.’

‘It is a little unconventional,’ Orial ventured.

‘And so it should be! Did they want pretty, simpering little tunes? Inoffensive harmonies to blunt the ear? The whole point was to make the story relevant in a cynical, jaded age. To make Mhir and Elesstar live again.’

Orial stared down at the sheets. She could hear the aria clearly in her head – but was her handwriting really so smudged? She held the paper nearer, closing one eye and then the other. Close to, it looked less indistinct. The music sang on in her head even though she could no longer focus upon the notes. She took off her spectacles and pinched her eyelids closed. Jagged pinpricks of light shot across the darkness in rhythmic patterns that mirrored the music.

What is wrong with my eyes?

‘Are you all right, demselle?’

She opened her eyes again and forced a smile.

‘I have a slight headache. May I take a glass of water before we begin?’

He gestured towards the crystal carafe which stood on a table beneath one of the gilt-swagged mirrors and went back to his habitual position by the window.

‘No. It can’t be…’ Orial heard him murmur to himself. Suddenly he called excitedly, ‘Cramoisy! Cramoisy!’

The Diva appeared in the doorway, yawning.

‘Well, and what is it that you must wake me from my afternoon nap?’

‘Look – down there in the Crescent –’

‘Miu Diu!’ cried Cramoisy, rushing into the hall. ‘They’ve escaped.’

Khassian went to go after the Diva and then paused in the doorway.

‘Those corrections, demselle.’

Perplexed, Orial sat down again at the escritoire and took up her pen. But the babble of voices in the hall was too noisy to allow for concentration.

‘Were you seen? Did anyone pay attention to you?’

‘Commanderie agents? In Sulien?’

‘Even here. Come into the salon, come in. Cramoisy – what can we offer our guests? Tea? Wine?’

Orial laid down her pen as Khassian brought three strangers, shabbily dressed, into the salon.

‘This is my amanuensis – Demselle Magelonne. Orial – meet three of the most gifted musicians it has been my privilege to work with. Azare – my repetiteur, a genius on the keyboard. Philamon – the deepest, most velvety bass voice in all Allegonde. And Astrel – the principal of the Opera orchestra.’

Orial dipped a curtsey. She could see the ravages of hunger etched into the visitors’ hollow cheeks, weeks of neglect in their straggling beards and uncombed hair.

‘But how did you evade the Commanderie?’ cried Khassian.

‘By spending weeks hidden in a damp cellar below the Conservatoire. They did not think to search in so obvious a place.’

‘And papers? They could have arrested you at the border.’