‘Clever forgeries. Astrel adapted that old music press in the cellar…’

Orial quietly began to tidy away the pens and pencils. Her presence, she sensed, was superfluous. Already the fugitives were pouring out the tale of their escape and Khassian’s attention was focussed solely on them.

The pendule clock on the mantlepiece struck the hour. Heavens, it was five! She had lost track of the time and she was late for tea – Papa would be waiting for her to join him. She would have to run all the way.

Jerame Magelonne checked his fob watch again. Late for tea. Where was she? This sudden interest in helping the Antiquarian at the Cabinet of Curiosities seemed excessive. And her behaviour of late had been erratic. She often seemed preoccupied, lost in thought, even distraite.

Surely it could not be the beginnings of the Accidie…

No! He instantly banished the thought, refusing to acknowledge it could be a possibility. He had done his utmost to protect her from the baneful influence of music. And yet he had heard her singing tunes of her own making. It must not happen again. He had been unable to save Iridial from the curse of her inheritance, but he would give his last drop of blood to save his daughter.

He looked anxiously out into the courtyard. Eleven minutes past five. Didn’t she know he would worry if she was late? Their afternoon tea ritual was something he cherished, looked forward to. When she was still at the Academie, she would come rushing in, cheeks flushed with excitement, to tell him the day’s news. Charming things, schoolgirls’ prattle, a distraction from the cares and worries of the Sanatorium.

Tea’s getting cold, Doctor,’ called Cook through the open doorway.

‘Er-hm. You haven’t seen Orial, have you?’ he asked.

‘She not back yet? Ah,’ said Cook knowingly.

‘Cook,’ said Jerame, hurrying after her, ‘is everything all right with her?’

‘So you’ve noticed at last!’ she said with a cackle. Then she tapped the side of her nose. ‘And about time too, I say. Head down in a book all the time – she’ll be left on the shelf.’

‘On the shelf?’ Jerame realised what Cook was implying. Orial was courting? No. Impossible. And yet it might explain the distant look in her eyes, the sudden starts, the vague manner…

He caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror; watchful, mistrustful eyes, lips compressed in disapproval. Was that how she saw him? The repressive, over-protective father?

He went into the morning room and, sitting down, mechanically lifted the pot to pour tea, a task Orial usually performed. He lifted the bowl to his lips, unthinking; the heat of the pale liquid stung his tongue. Surprised, he set the bowl down. He had not been thinking about what he was doing. He had been thinking of Orial. He swallowed hard. The mouthful of tea scalded his throat.