Mirrum's soul shrank in horror. She wildly cast her eyes around about her, looking perhaps for some accuser who had nonetheless caught the colour of her dress in the dim twilight, some mocking face pressed against the carvings of the alabaster walls like a malicious Puck…

But all the elaborately carved flowers showed pinpricks of clear, unobstructed light– no sign of anyone, no dark outline of an intruder. Save for the ever-present guard against the wall. Mirrum's breath caught in her throat, lest it should be he who had seen her…

But the helmeted man-at-arms' shoulders were slumped, his body slack in the loose-limbed droop of sleep. There is no feigning the real thing. Besides, the voice had not come from below. It had fallen lightly from above…

And there was nothing above but the widespread blanket of stars…

'Deus!' Mirrum's soul shrank a second time within her miserable skin, only this time with the white-hot realisation that could be nothing above but what was feared most. Judgement.

She broke at once into the Miserere, the words hotly clustering together inside her head and slewing into each other until the Latin became an undignified rush of words, stumbling and falling headlong over the unfamiliar syllables.

'Miserere mei, Deus; secundum magnam misericordiam tuam…'

There was a pause, as Mirrum ran out of breath and subsided into panicked gulps of air. It could have filled oceans.

There was another pause, punctuated by a slight thread of unfamiliar sound. Mirrum was quite at a loss to tell what it was, until…

The heavenly messenger was laughing. Slightly, and with a touch of wry self-knowledge, but most definitely…

Mirrum was bewildered.

'That,' the voice said clearly, once again, 'Is at once a flattering, and a rather alarming, mistake. Forgive me for disillusioning you, but I am rather resolutely, I am afraid – mortal.'

It was a peculiar voice. Pleasantly low; and speaking impeccable French, yet at times the intonation sounded a little laboured, as though the thoughts came faster than the words. It was like hearing the sound of a bolt of velvet unroll on the air itself. One could easily believe an angel might speak like that.

'You are not a divine messenger?' Mirrum could not help but sound relieved; the frightening, dizzying thought that a God might deign to use His voice to speak to her at a moment of somewhat awkward sin had petrified her.

Of course, there was the other, more troubling thought that the voice equally must know her transgression as easily as the Lord of Hosts, if he could see her grass-stained and dirty in the forgotten Eden.

'No.' The voice said gently. 'No.'

'Lord be praised!' Mirrum said fervently, brushing the dirt from the knees of her gown.

There was another faint ripple of laughter from above.'You are very eager to avoid the attention of Heaven. And of lesser beings, it seems,' it added, no doubt noticing that Mirrum was anxiously casting about with nervous eyes for the speaker. And not finding him. 'You need have no fear, I shall not betray your secret.'

'It is not truly very much of one,' Mirrum confessed ruefully, her pale face twitching into a slight smile.

It is necessary to explain why Mirrum did not immediately hare off, relieved, terrified and contrite all at once. Another (perhaps wiser girl) would have done so immediately, without thought of the consequences, and would have lived an unremarkable life as serving-maid henceforth. But there is an old Latin proverb that says, 'that which is unknown is enchanting', and Mirrum would have made an excellent illustration of the point. She was fascinated, to the extent that she would say anything in order to prolong the conversation. Voices from above felt like something extraordinary, something from the Jerusalem Mab had envisaged. Angels like so many pigeons fluttering idly about.

'You are quite sure you are human? Because I cannot for the life of me see anything of you…'

'You are looking in the wrong place. Up.'

Mirrum dutifully craned her head towards the sky; still – a very little – nervous about whether or not there would be a fiery-eyed angel with scarlet wings perched on the roof tiles. Nothing, nothing…

Ah.

Imagine, against the fading brilliance of clear twilight, a flickering light. As Mirrum's eyes strain in the half-dark of below, it becomes a brazier, the smoke rising from it in a thin sliver of vapour, and thence, just in front of the light so very far above her head, is-

The shape of a head and shoulders, looking down. Nothing more. It is too dark, and the light behind the figure robs it of any form, so the face, the features – all are lost in the dark and the fantastic shadow-play of light and utter dark that leaves Mirrum little wiser than before. The set of the head is dignified, she thinks – perhaps. Its movements are slow, shrouded. But the carriage of the head, even leaning down across the balustrade, at so great a distance, seems quiet, but powerful. A scholar's stance. Mirrum knows it well from her schooling in monasteries, and respects it for what it is – as he said. Resolutely human. But still a silhouette.

'I see you,' she called, her voice carrying a thin handful of words up to her watcher. 'And you say you won't betray me, you who I still cannot see? Who are you?'

'Ah…' the voice said ruefully. 'Knowledge. Forbidden fruit. Let us say, for now – I am an observer, like you. An intelligent observer.'

'What makes you think I have wit?'

'Come, false modesty! It took wit to find the garden.' The voice said simply. 'Most courtiers do not give it a second glance, though they pass it every day of their life. It takes a sharp eye to see it. And you are intelligent, in that – whilst there are many, many serving women… I have yet to see another who plays at old Greek legend with a princeling.'

Mirrum froze. 'You saw.'

'I was piqued, if you like,' the voice remarked dryly. 'Entertained, certainly. And, since you would have an answer to your question, I propose we come to terms over it amicably. Three questions in turn.'

Mirrum cocked her head on one side, unconsciously imitating Sybilla's feline movements as she considered the proposal. 'On what?' she said cautiously.

'Tush! If you will not play, then I shall withdraw offended.' The voice said lightly. 'You have my sworn oath of silence. Are questions such dangerous matter?'

Well – yes, Mirrum thought. Very. Questions were what Sybilla feared, after all – questions on the letters, discovery, unpleasant scenes, hasty letters, horse's hooves flying in the dust – Betrayal. Lies. Whoever the eccentric scholar was, he had an unnerving habit of playing Mephistopheles. But… an observer. Like you. An observer. An intelligent observer.

Mirrum stood up, screwing her courage into a tight ball of nerves. There was one sure way to tell, after all. If the watcher was a spy of the unsavoury Lord Guy, then the words should stick in his throat.

'Are you loyal to the Royal House?' she asked, cautiously. 'To the King? As I am?' she added, defiantly. Just in case.

'I would venture to say,' the voice said gravely, after a thoughtful pause, 'that disloyalty to the King is as impossible as disloyalty to myself.'

The ball of nerves unclenched itself a little. A great deal, to be honest. Mirrum didn't really think much of the idea of a poisonous traitor dogging her footsteps, but this was foreign ground – and she had read far too many of the white monks' poisonous chronicles of the corruption of court life to venture into anything without thought.

'Alright,' she said bravely. 'First question – are you a member of the Royal Household?'

'Quite certainly.' There was a hint of a smile in the voice. 'My question. Do you hail from the lands of Germany? Your French has an accent I cannot place…'

'England. Not Germany – although my grandsire was a Dane.' Mirrum curtseyed, ironically. 'Second question: how do you know of the garden?'

'Ah. That one is easy. These apartments, Dane-lady, overlook the garden. How can you miss what is always there?' The smile was no longer merely a hint; in the voice the tone of enjoyment was positively infectious. 'I like riddles. How long have you been at Court?'

'Five months and a handful of days.' Mirrum gingerly stepped out of the bowl of the fountain in a shower of cold droplets. Grace was something for other people to possess, never Mirrum, and as a result she splashed like an ungainly duckling, looking like anything but a Dane-lady. 'If you haven't seen me,' she said, almost to herself, 'It's because I'm not really here. I'm a petite revenante. My Lady Sybilla calls me that.' She thought about this. It wasn't hard to see why. Mirrum might be pale as a English winter, but one of the qualities Sybilla doubtless liked about her was she was – serviceable. Meek, unobtrusive, the sort of person you could pass without a second glance. Like a corn doll. And she looked more like a kitchen slattern than a lady-in-waiting. No one to be trusted with important, secret matters like translating the dubious instructions of my Lord Guy…

Fortunately this all flashed behind Mirrum's eyes rather than aloud. However, it is by no means certain that the stiff figure above her did not read it simply by her face. A sharp movement of the shrouded head indicated that the scholar studied faces as well as books. But the movement subsided into a courteous inclination as Mirrum looked up again. 'I should be a little more courtly by now,' she said regretfully. 'I am not.'

'That is an honest answer.' The voice sounded interested, a little piqued, perhaps, at the strange little creature with old eyes below. 'A frank one, too. But then I would hardly believe you if you had told me you were filled with ah – courtly cynicism. You deserve a generous answer to your third question. Whatever that may be.'

The sunlight had all but vanished now. Mirrum had to squint to see even the outline of her mysterious companion. The weak, dancing light of the passages beyond the walls gave her no help…

'Torches! Torches for my lord!'

Mirrum yelped and threw herself face down in the dust again as booted feet strode past – a large retinue this time. Some late-comer to the Royal Feast, perhaps.

They mercifully hurried quickly away.

'They will not look, you know.' The voice said calmly, when the footsteps were a distant memory in the labyrinth of passages. 'They never do. That is why your young friend – pardon me – was there in broad daylight.' The tranquillity, like the odd, dry humour, had a way of infusing the air. 'And they are bound for the feasting tonight – a great one, so I hear.' It added, neutrally. 'In celebration.'

Mirrum rose cautiously to a half-crouch, no longer lying headlong in the dirt. She had ducked as though arrow-bolts hissed overhead – much, she strongly suspected, to the amusement of the voice. 'An important one?' she asked, uneasily. 'I think that must be my final question. I should be waiting on the Lady Sybilla…'

'She would not thank you for your attendance tonight, I think,' the voice said slowly. 'And even if she expected you, on occasions such as this, she prefers to encounter the – guest of honour, shall we say – alone.'

'I thought as much.' Mirrum said glumly, looking every inch a dejected wraith-girl 'The King himself, I shouldn't wonder. Probably back from a great hunt.' She added, importantly, to show she knew a little of the manner of kings. 'Or some great business of state. I shall be flayed for my absence…'

There was a small, breathy sound from above. The voice went suddenly, quite abruptly silent.

'Are you there?' Mirrum said anxiously, shifting from foot to foot. She did not want to be left alone with her skittering nerves and a darkly silent garden.

'What? Oh. Yes. The King goes hunting?' the voice enquired. There was a careful lack of expression in the voice. 'I was not aware that he was quite so…active.'

'Kings always hunt,' Mirrum said firmly. 'I've read about it. And they have fair hair and they powder their beards with the scent of honeysuckle.'

The laughter did not ripple this time. It positively exploded, with a hollow sound that quite alarmed Mirrum. Had she not been quite assured the voice was human, she would have said it was unearthly.

'Ah-aha – forgive me, I did not mean to be mocking…'the voice said, at last. 'Honeysuckle? Is that the fashion in England?'

Mirrum looked a little defensive. 'It is what I have read in the chronicles,' she said insistently. 'The monks say it is Norman vanity that tarnishes the soul, and for every curl-'

'Doubtless they will burn in hell. Monks are keen to remind us of the Pit, to keep us on the path of righteousness. That will keep me entertained for some time, Dane lady. I must remember that – powdering their beards… dear me…I would not say that to anyone else,' it added, as an afterthought. 'Your mistress would not take kindly to it and might see it as an insult.'

'It is not the fashion of the King of Jerusalem?'

'No. No, I think not,' the voice said kindly, after a tranquil pause. ' The joke, I think, would not be appreciated by many apart from myself. And he is not at table. The feast is for the Lord Guy de Lusignan newly returned from Acre…'

Mirrum's face went ashen. 'Lords of Hell!'

'I must agree with you,' the voice said soberly. 'You are not so uncourtly after all.'

'I-I must go…' Mirrum listened, agonised, for voices in the cloister, and then made a determined spring for her discarded shoes. She looked straight upwards again, suddenly dismayed. 'Thank you, sir – sir…that should have been what my last question was! What your name is!'

'Keep the question, then,' the voice said amiably. 'As a parting gift. It will keep.'

'But your name! What if…'

'I shall wager I shall discover yours before you find mine,' the voice said quietly, a faint movement of the head discovering his place in the darkness. 'If you return to play at Greek legend, or to take a twilight walk – well, perhaps we may talk again.'

Mirrum had at first been set on never returning, ever. But she nodded now. 'I would like that.' She said, fumbling with her battered leather shoes, before straightening and making a sally for the wall she had climbed. She did not dare look back – one, two, foothold to the side, one leg over –and a wild jump downwards that resulted in a less dignified sprawl than the young prince's.

Safe. Dirty, grass-stained, and unpresentable as she was, Mirrum had nonetheless made it undetected. But she did, remembering Prince 'Perseus' and his gesture of grateful loyalty, put her hand to the elaborate wall and make her farewells.