He had not realised till now how much he had been dreading this moment. It was the natural cycle of things, after all. You cared for children, watched them grow… but when the time came to let them go, did it have to be so hard?

Harder for him to let go than for others. For in Orial, the echo of Iridial still lived and breathed. It was not so much in her physical appearance… although of late even that had begun to change… but in her gestures, the expressions which glided across her face, clouds across sunlight…

He reached blindly for the tea again, gulped down the hot liquid, ignoring the burn. She was still not back and it was a quarter past the hour. What did one say in these situations? You are confined to your room? You must never leave the Sanatorium unchaperoned again? He was not sure how adept he would be at playing the stern papa. He had no wish to turn her against him… and yet, damn it all, she was late and he was worried!

If only Iridial – He checked the thought. No point in wishing. At moments like this, a mother’s subtle advice would be so much more appropriate. She would remember what it was like to be a girl of eighteen, to be young, admired…

And her secret admirer. Who was he? Some bespectacled student of Jolaine Tradescar’s, perhaps, or some Academie boy…

What hurt him most was that she had not confided in him. Perhaps – he stood up and began to pace the room – she was ashamed of what she had done. Dear Goddess! She was sensible. Surely she would not have –

‘Hallo, Papa, I’m so sorry I’m late!’ She came into the room, casting her cape down over a chair. Her face seemed flushed, a becoming, rosy tinge warming her usual delicate pallor.

‘It’s nearly five-thirty,’ he said stiffly.

‘I’m starving. What has Cook prepared today?’ She lifted the silver lid. ‘Toasted teacakes! And they’re still warm. Won’t you have one, Papa?’ She turned to him, holding out the teacake on a plate; a peace-offering.

He shook his head.

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘More tea, then?’ she said a little plaintively. She must have sensed his anger.

‘I was worried, Orial!’

‘I was… delayed. That’s all.’

Why wouldn’t she tell him the truth? As she sipped her tea, cupping in her fingers the delicate bowl with its pattern of green and black cranes, her eyes were averted, fixed on some distant point beyond the steam rising from the bowl.

‘Orial – is there anything you want to tell me?’

She started.

‘I don’t think you’re being wholly truthful with me. I think you’re hiding something, keeping something back. Now – I know all young girls are flattered by the advances of young men, I know it’s spring, but –’