She set the glass bowl down on a side-table and began to move through the crowd.

Someone blocked her way.

‘Where are you going?’

She looked up, startled, to see Khassian had moved away from his admirers.

‘We must talk.’

He ushered her towards an alcove, curved like a shell, painted pink and gold. As they sat down together, she became aware of eyes resting on her: curious eyes, envious eyes. Had anyone recognised her? Would anyone tell her father? She looked questioningly at Khassian.

‘Do not think, I beg you, demselle, that I am not sensible of your role in tonight’s triumph. Indeed, it would not have been possible were it not for the part you have played in transcribing my music so swiftly and so accurately.’

She nodded, hardly hearing the compliment, seeing only his eyes, brown as tortoiseshell, gazing earnestly into hers.

‘I want to stage the opera here. In Sulien.’ His voice was husky with excitement.

‘Here?’

‘But it will mean a great deal of work – especially for you. Do you feel equal to the task?’

‘Oh, yes, yes!‘ Orial heard herself agreeing before she had even thought about it.

‘How much longer can you go on keeping it from your father? You’re going to have to tell him.’

Her father. The delicious trance was broken.

‘He would be so angry.’

‘But you’re a born musician. You should be studying at the Conservatoire. When the opera is complete, I shall write you letters of introduction to the Director.’

So often she had dreamed of this. Here, at last, was confirmation of her deepest hopes and aspirations. A born musician. The words sang in her mind.

‘And you mustn’t leave it too late. You’ve so much to catch up on – and you’re already eighteen.’

Orial had begun to twist one of the blue satin ribbons around her fingers.

‘How could I leave Papa? He has no one but me.’

‘If he truly loves you, he will let you go. For if he tries to hold on, he will just as surely lose you.’

Jerame Magelonne had created his own personal shrine where he could be alone with his memories, alone with the few relics of his life with Iridial. He felt closer to her here, in the room they had shared, than in the eternal silence of the Undercity. And in the dead of night, when he was certain he could not be overheard, he spoke aloud to her.

It was well past midnight. The blue-painted room seemed to mirror the starry spring night outside, the dusky folds of the silk hangings dusted with white-embroidered daisies and star-lilies. She had chosen the material herself, holding its softness up to her cheek, delighted with the delicacy of the embroidery.