Cramoisy entered Khassian’s room, closing the door, standing with his back pressed against it as if to keep Mistress Permay out.

‘You heard?’

‘What’s happened to our money, Cramoisy?’

The Diva gave a little shrug.

‘We’ve spent it.’

‘All of it? Even your jewel money?’

‘Don’t worry. The Mayor has invited me to give a series of recitals. And if that doesn’t bring in enough, I’ll start to give lessons. You could teach music theory.’

Khassian looked at him in horror.

‘I am not teaching theory to Sulien brats!’

‘Miu caru, you may have to.’

‘We must find cheaper accommodation. We must live within our means.’

There was a shocked silence. Then Cramoisy said, each word clipped and precise, ‘You may, if you wish. Composers are renowned for starving in garrets. But I have my reputation to consider. I shall remain here.’

Orial stood on the borders of an alien country. Clouds scudded overfast across a threatening sky, illuminating the unfamiliar terrain with brief snatches of stormlight. She was a stranger in this mindscape, wandering lost and confused, searching vainly for familiar landmarks.

She had begun to dread the daily mindjourney, the plunge into the darkness along unknown ways.

It was all happening too fast. Her brain could not assimilate Khassian’s musical language.

Yet his influence was growing, shaping her own style. She sometimes experienced the unpleasant sensation that she was beginning to lose her identity, that his music was invading and altering her mind until her individuality was submerged in his.

Today they had been alone together, unchaperoned (Cramoisy was closeted elsewhere for fear his undisciplined thoughts might disturb Orial’s concentration). Khassian had walked close to her, his jacket brushing the corner of the escritoire. She had looked up and noticed the curve of his cheekbones, the shadow on his stubborn chin, the way his eyes softened when lost in the intricacies of his composition…

‘Let me see that passage again.’

He leaned over her shoulder. So close that she wanted to reach out and push the errant strand of hair out of his eyes. So close she could breathe in the scent of his hair, a curiously clean scent, redolent of soap herbs, rosemary and mallow. But who had washed his hair for him, tugged a comb through the tangles –

‘No, no, no, this is all wrong. You must do it again. It’s free time here, senza misura. Recitative. Let’s take it one bar at a time.’

Deflated, she took up the pen and scored lines through the passage.

‘This leads into one of the key moments of the opera. I’m striving for something new here, something that goes far beyond convention…’

He wandered over to the window, still talking.