‘I will sit in that gilt chair by the window. Put it so that the light falls on my left side. Good heavens, girl, how many times do I have to tell you, the left side!’ There was a small beauty-spot on Nerine’s left cheek, God’s last blessing on his handiwork. ‘Yes, that’s good,’ she said, pulling the pleated silk robe closer. ‘I might have known about the furnishings when I bought it. Give me the mirror and the comb.’ Guy would think he had come too early, she would start a little, turn… There should be flowers near: that bowl of roses and lilies. Could she hold a rose in her hand? No, not if she was combing her hair. Or wear one behind her ear? No, because she wanted the dishabille look: ‘Beauty Surprised’. But suppose she had been overcome by the loveliness of the rose as she combed her hair?

‘Quickly, one of those roses in the bowl. No, you idiot, a pale one. Yes, that’s right. Now you can go.’

Thus Guy, entering the room a few minutes later, saw the woman who held his heart. She sat, fresh as the morning, by the open window with the light shining on the heart-rending perfection of her curved cheek. Her incredible hair streamed over her shoulders; her face was pensive, serene, and she was looking down at a flower cupped in her hands — on a rose whose fragrance had made her forget her toilette. She was like the lady in the unicorn tapestry at Cluny, caught in her enclosed garden, dreaming, forgetful of her beauty.

‘I’m sorry — am I early?’

‘Oh Guy, you startled me!’ She smiled up at him. ‘How could you be early, my dearest? I’m always happy when you come.’

Joy welled up in Guy. She was worthy of every guerdon; nothing he had done had been excessive. A thousand castles, a million banquets would not be too many to lay at her feet.

But Nerine had put down her rose and was looking at the small box he carried — a box which he now opened and placed wordlessly in her hand.

‘Oh!’ For a moment she was speechless. She could not remember when she had been so moved. This surely must be the largest, the most valuable diamond in the world. ‘Guy,’ she said. ‘Oh, Guy, darling!’

Gravely, Guy bent and slipped the jewel on her finger. Then, in a gesture as old as love itself, he knelt at her feet and put his head, almost as dark as hers, into her silken lap.

And in the mirror, Nerine smiled.

‘Where is The Mother?’ cried Boris for the seventh time that morning.

‘She’s inside the wig basket,’ soothed Tessa. ‘Screwed down very tight and wrapped in Pamino’s petticoat with lots of padding.’

‘Mind your backs, please! Mind your backs…’

The International Opera Company was loading to go on its mystery assignment and in the narrow lane behind the theatre the confusion was incredible. A huge covered lorry, advertising itself as the first motorized pantechnicon in Europe and looking as though it would soon be the last, was parked half on the pavement. An old army truck and something resembling a gigantic hearse were parked close behind. Jacob was rushing about with a list, so was the stage manager: everyone, in fact, had lists.

Though the chorus, orchestra and principals were to follow by train, several of the artistes had come to see the fun and were busy getting in the way of the men carrying the scenery and props out of the theatre.

‘Herr Klasky has just phoned,’ screamed the Rhine-maiden from the stage door. ‘He wants to know if Tessa has his towelling robe.’

‘Yes, I have it, Frau Witzler,’ called Tessa. ‘He left it in the Green Room.’ She snatched the tottering Bubi from the path of an oncoming trolley, ran back to fasten the windows of the dressing-rooms and administered aspirin to Frau Pollack who was getting ready for her travelling migraine.

‘The cyclorama!’ yelled Witzler. ‘My God, the cyclo-rama!’

Gradually the chaos subsided. Tessa, Boris and the stage manager climbed into the pantechnicon. Jacob shut the door and seated himself in the cab beside the driver and — to the screams of Bubi who wanted to go in the lorry with Tessa — the company took to the road.

They crossed the Ringstrasse and headed south, Jacob frowning in a rare moment of contrition as he recalled his last glimpse of the under wardrobe mistress curled up between a pile of flats, her shorn head jammed against the pillars of Sarastro’s temple. Perhaps he should have let her have the twenty-four-hours’ leave she had requested: she had looked very troubled when he had refused. But the truth was, he simply could not face the get-in without her. Klasky had Beethoven’s waistcoat button but he, as he was beginning to realize, had Tessa. There was also the matter of his little son. The Rhinemaiden could lift a piano but her nerves were delicate and Bubi adored Tessa. In fact, he had thought of suggesting that Tessa might like to have Bubi’s cot in her room at Pfaffenstein.

Well, it was done now. He forgot it, thoroughly pleased with the way he had kept Farne’s secret. No one but himself and the driver knew their destination. Even the principals would only receive their instructions when they got to the station. Not many people could do that but he had done it. And now for a week of glory!

Tessa, in the back, rested her head more comfortably on the rolled-up starcloth. She had been very miserable when Jacob had refused her leave, knowing how disappointed the aunts would be. But if it was not to be, it was not to be and there was something very real about spending one’s birthday like this. Jacob had said she could have leave later and she would go home then — except that it was no longer ‘home’. Being unpaid, she could take leave whenever she wished, but that had not for a moment occurred either to her or to her employer.

In the darkness of the windowless van she could just make out Boris leaning against a cut-out tree. He had unpacked The Mother and was speaking to her softly in Bulgarian, promising her milk.

There was nothing to do, thought Tessa dreamily… not for hours. She could think, or rest or sleep…

Tessa’s sleep debt was boundless. In her attic in the Wipplingerstrasse, to which often she did not return until the small hours, she was at the beck and call of the little Kugelheimers who regarded her bed as a perfect refuge from the tigers and spooks that inhabited their nursery. She was the first to reach the theatre and the last to leave at night… sleep for Tessa was what salvation is to the sinner, enlightenment to the mystic: mostly unattainable and infinitely desired.

Her eyes closed, her small hands uncurled. She was in a red plush-lined room and Mozart was looking down at her. She knew it was Mozart because of the radiance that shone from him. ‘I wrote it for you,’ he said, and handed her the score of Figaro but when she opened it, it was a box of Karlsbad plums.

Thus Tessa slept and smiled and slept… slept as they drove through Neustadt and Feldberg… slept as they paused for Frau Pollack to be sick beside a railway siding in Oberwent… slept as Boris covered her carefully with his own overcoat. She was still deeply and utterly asleep when the lorry stopped and Witzler climbed down, opened the double doors and said, ‘We’re there.’

‘Good God!’ Boris had climbed out and was looking at the vast courtyard, the soaring towers, the lowered flag with its gold griffin and scarlet glove. ‘It’s Pfaffenstein, isn’t it? I came here once on an excursion.’

A chorus of ‘Pfaffenstein! We’re at Pfaffenstein!’ echoed round the castle walls as the stage-hands and carpenters climbed out of the other covered lorries and examined their surroundings.

‘Yes,’ said Jacob proudly. ‘It’s Burg Pfaffenstein.’ He peered into the pantechnicon and saw Tessa, pale as a snowdrop, still curled in sleep. ‘We’ll leave her for a bit,’ he said, feeling contrition touch him once again, and turned to find David Tremayne coming towards them, followed by a posse of retainers: tall craggy men with war ribbons pinned to their liveries of crimson and green.

‘Mr Farne thought you might like to see your rooms first,’ said David when he had introduced himself. ‘We have managed to get the whole company into the Fountain Courtyard — that’s through the archway. The theatre’s over there.’ He pointed to the huge double doors at the end of the great south facade. ‘We’re rather keen to get the lorries away by six because the reception begins then, so I’ve brought along some men to help your people unload and show them where things are. They’re old castle servants and absolutely trustworthy.’

Jacob thanked him and with Boris and the still ailing Frau Pollack, followed the young Englishman into the arcaded courtyard with its creeper-covered colonnades. The company, he saw at once, had been royally treated. The rooms were light and most comfortably furnished; a double bed for himself and his Rhinemaiden had been specially brought in and the room assigned to Raisa was, tactfully, the largest and filled with flowers.

Well pleased, conveying his thanks to Herr Farne, Jacob returned to supervise the unloading. And saw at once that something was wrong. The men were not working; they were standing round the pantechnicon, scowling and furious, and when they saw Witzler they swarmed round him, their mood so ugly that some absurd idea of a strike or revolution crossed Jacob’s mind.

‘They’ve taken Tessa!’

‘Kidnapped her!’

‘Frog-marched her away. Those louts in green and red uniforms.’

‘She didn’t stand a chance. They just climbed into the back to unpack and then grabbed her.’

‘We tried to stop them and they went for us. One of them had a sort of staff and he clouted Stefan.’

‘They took her through that iron door there.’