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She shakes her head. ‘I remember the invitation. I remember seeing it burn. And then. . . I do not know.’

‘I can’t remember my journey, either,’ Leander says. It’s true enough.

‘I thought as much,’ Missah says grimly. ‘It has been the same for all whom I have asked: the invitation, then this place, as a transition in a dream. And now we are here, all of us, and we are quite accepting of the premise of this auction, despite the fact that—when examined rationally—it seems quite absurd.’

‘Absurd,’ the mademoiselle echoes. ‘I suppose it is. But. . . at the same time, I cannot bear to even consider that something here might be a lie.’

Missah nods. ‘Indeed. That is the most curious thing of all.’

De Vienne huffs. Her expression of distress is so comically endearing—lips pouted, cheeks puffed—that Leander can’t stand it. He knows better than anyone that this line of questioning has no end. ‘We should meet the other guests,’ he says to her, which is hardly comfort, but she brightens as if he has paid her a compliment.

They bid farewell to Missah, who immediately returns to frowning and scribbling in his notebook. The next guest they find is a short man of middling age, standing behind the clock, utterly enraptured. He wears a coat of extravagant black velvet trimmed with scarlet. His hair is dark and curling, and his face is ruddy. As they approach, he mutters to himself in Spanish, pulling a pair of wire-framed spectacles from his pocket to more closely inspect the filigree of the golden bark. Then he glances at them, and the smile he offers is genuine and warm; it adds charm to uneven features that are otherwise somewhat unattractive.

‘I am Ortiz,’ he says, ‘of Sevilla,’ with a brief but respectful bow. Mademoiselle de Vienne’s stumbling attempt at replying in Spanish delights him, and he kisses the back of her hand with great enthusiasm before returning to his frantic inspection of the clock. Leander considers warning him to leave it alone, but he knows his brother will be here soon and do the job for him.

On the other side of the room stands a woman in jewel-tone silks, a feather fan suspended carefully in front of her face. She is plump, her face a perfect picture of patrician beauty. Her brown hair is wrapped in a plum-coloured turban, pinned in place with a spectacular dagger-shaped pin glittering with sapphires. She stares at him with a sort of affected languidness that makes Leander’s hair stand on end—as if, beneath her smirk, she is considering the best way to carve him up for serving.

‘Merhaba, mademoiselle, monsieur,’ the woman says to them, purring behind her feathers. ‘I am Saliha Sultan.’

‘A pleasure, Madame Sultan. I am called Genevieve Célestine de Vienne, and this is my friend Monsieur Leander Sterne.’

Friend. Leander wants to laugh at the absurdity of it—they’ve known each other an hour, at most?—but quite strangely, the word has made his throat close up.

It is Saliha Sultan who laughs in the end: an airy, practiced giggle that reminds him of the twittering of birds. ‘How darling you are. Sultan is simply my title. It means ‘emperor’—that is, the position of my brother.’

The mademoiselle gasps softly. ‘You are a princess?’

‘It is not that impressive a feat; there are several dozen of us last I counted, sisters and cousins and daughters all. Besides, my mother is not the sultan’s mother, so I am of little consequence to him. Have you any siblings, mademoiselle?’

‘No, none.’

‘And you, Mister Sterne?’

They gaze expectantly at him. Leander shifts nervously. He doesn’t like this woman—she’s too enquiring, too sharp. If she notices something is different about him, she could alert the other guests. ‘A brother,’ he barks, more sharply than he’d like. ‘Farewell, madam. We should meet the others.’

He tugs de Vienne away. Saliha Sultan seems more amused than offended by their abrupt departure, but as he drags de Vienne across the room, she says in gentle admonishment: ‘That was quite rude.’

‘I don’t give a damn.’

‘That was ruder,’ she returns, lips twitching with restrained laughter. ‘You mentioned a brother, monsieur? Older or younger?’

‘I’d rather not speak of him.’

‘Pardon, I was merely curious—’

‘I’d rather not,’ he repeats, more harshly this time. They have stopped by the staircase, and Leander is certain that everyone is staring at them. He can feel their gazes poking at him like pins. Oh, he despises this. He has spent all his remembered life a recluse, and yet he believed he could navigate a three-day social event without embarrassing himself?

‘Forgive me, sir,’ the mademoiselle whispers in English, eyes cast downwards. God, he is irritated by her, irritated by how she apologises for things that aren’t her fault, irritated by the shimmering powder on her collarbones, placed so that they glimmer beneath the chandelier, highlighting the hollow of her throat. It is so hollow there, in fact, that Leander thinks he could drink from it if she were to lie down, like sipping from a glass.

‘Is all well, mademoiselle?’ comes a voice. Another guest has approached them: an elderly woman in a wheeled chair, grey curls impressively thick beneath a red kerchief, green eyes bright with curiosity. She wears a small gold amulet with a Hebrew symbol on it and large pearl earrings.

‘Quite well,’ de Vienne replies, with a shallow curtsey. ‘You are. . .?’

‘Kramarov, of Odessa,’ the woman returns. She doesn’t seem much interested in giving a first name, but her smile is warm and friendly.

‘Genevieve Célestine de Vienne, and this is my. . . This is Monsieur Leander Sterne.’

Kramarov’s gaze turns to Leander, and it becomes a good deal more withering. ‘It seems you have upset the young mademoiselle, sir. I would expect better from a guest at such a refined establishment.’