The noisy chatter suddenly hushed. Cramoisy was there, on the platform, in a suit of darkest kingfisher blue, embroidered with seed pearls. In the shadows Orial saw a man silently, discreetly, seating himself at the keyboard of a gilded harpsichord: Azare.

A glace passed between the performers.

‘To start my recital I will be giving the first – the very first – performance of Elesstar’s aria, “O, Sacred Rose…”‘

A murmur of interest greeted the announcement. Orial looked around uneasily. Cramoisy was taking a considerable risk in starting the recital with a new, unknown work – especially a work that was banned in Allegonde.

Cramoisy began to sing.

This was the first aria Orial had transcribed for Khassian; every note was graven on her memory. Till today this music had been an intimate secret shared with Khassian alone. To perform it in public seemed a violation of that intimacy.

And then she found her antipathy melting, seduced by Cramoisy’s exquisite singing. Slowly drowning in waves of sound, Orial resisted… but resistance was no use and the music engulfed her.

Stillness hung in the room like a seafog over the waters.

Then came the applause. The audience shouted themselves hoarse, they showered flowers on to the stage until the boards were covered in green and white and gold: jonquils, lilies.

Orial sat silent, sad that the purity of the moment had been spoilt.

Cramoisy, smiling, dipped to pick up armfuls of the scented flowers, kissing his hand to the enraptured audience. He turned to Khassian, beckoning him with one hand.

Khassian, if anything paler than before, stood up and with a single bow of the head acknowledged the applause of the audience.

Orial heard excited whispers from the elegant women sitting behind her.

‘How pale he is…’

‘And yet uncommonly good-looking.’

‘They say he only just escaped the tyrannical regime in Bel’Esstar with his life.’

‘An escaped revolutionary, my dear, how thrilling!’

Orial ventured a sidelong glance at Khassian; he seemed utterly oblivious to the whispered compliments, lost in some memory of past triumphs, maybe… or else merely accustomed to audience acclaim.

And suddenly she knew the reason for his pallor. This was not just his first concert in Sulien – it was the first time he had appeared in public since the fire. Till now she had only seen him as the illustrious composer, unassailable in his craft. Now she saw how terribly vulnerable the fire had left him.

Please let no one ask him about his hands.

As was the custom in Sulien, the audience repaired to the salon for refreshments at the conclusion of the concert: tea punch was a favoured drink, lightly alcoholic yet refreshing.

Orial stood in the shadow of one of the fluted columns, cupping a bowl of punch in her fingers. Cramoisy and Azare had retired to the dressing room. Khassian was surrounded by a crowd of eager admirers. She felt herself invisible. Maybe she should slip away now, before anyone noticed her…