They had already lit the candles in the crystal chandeliers at the Rooms and their brilliance spilled out on to the courtyard from the tall windows. Within, the tables were set out for cards and tea and a murmur of conversation blended with the more distant strain of country dances emanating from the ballroom. Jerame frowned. Maybe it was as well Orial had not accompanied them; he had forgotten there was a dance this afternoon.

The periwigged attendant ushered them to a table in the alcove. He offered to take Jolaine’s wrap and bag but she refused, still clutching the bag possessively. Jerame hastily ordered tea and sat down, laying his gloves on the table.

‘What a pity Orial could not join us,’ Jolaine said, easing herself into a chair opposite his.

‘I’d – hm – been meaning to come and see you about Orial.’

‘Ah,’ Jolaine said. ‘So you’ve noticed too.’

‘Noticed what precisely?’

‘The eyes.’ Jolaine eased herself into a chair opposite his. ‘She has her mother’s eyes.’

‘But it usually skips a generation or two, often more.’

‘Then how –’

Jerame looked up to see her gazing penetratingly at him. ‘You don’t think that I –’

‘It is possible, Jerame.’

‘But the Lifhendil inheritance only occurs in the female line.’ He had begun to twist his gloves into a knot.

‘Only shows itself in the female line. Who’s to say that a strain has not lain dormant in your family for years?’

‘You know very well I have no sisters.’

‘My point precisely. You are the first of your line to sire a daughter for generations. The Lifhendil blood could have passed to her through you – as well as directly through her mother.’

‘We have no proof.’ To hear Jolaine confirm his suspicions only increased his disquiet. ‘And I have kept her safe all these years, safe from the malign influence that music would exert over her. There is no certainty that she will develop the full-blown condition.’ Who was he trying to convince with this show of bravado? Jolaine had noticed Orial’s eyes too.

The attendant arrived, bearing the tea-tray, and Jerame tried to fix his attention on pouring tea into the bowls. But his hand shook and he spilled tea on to the cloth; a spreading yellow stain on the crisp white linen.

Jolaine leaned across and placed her hand on his arm.

‘You must not blame yourself. No one could have foreseen such a thing.’

‘But what am I going to do?’ For a moment his composure deserted him and tremblingly he took out his kerchief to wipe his brow. The distant strains of the country dance no longer sounded merry but distorted, grotesque.

‘It doesn’t have to end the same way,’ she said gently.