A few minutes later, the cockerel in the garden next door stuck up his head to greet the bright new day and died instantly mid–'doodle‑doo'.

There was a huge darkness in front of Agnes while, at the same time, she was half‑blinded by the light. Just below the edge of the stage, giant flat candles floated in a long trough of water, producing a strong yellow glare quite unlike the oil lamps of home. Beyond the light, the auditorium waited like the mouth of a very big and extremely hungry animal.

From somewhere on the far side of the lights a voice said, 'When you're ready, miss.'

It wasn't a particularly unfriendly voice. It just wanted her to get on with it, sing her piece, and go.

'I've, er, got this song, it's a–'

'You've given your music to Miss Proudlet?'

'Er, there isn't an accompaniment actually, it–'

'Oh, it's a folk song, is it?'

There was a whispering in the darkness, and someone laughed quietly.

'Off you go then... Perdita, right?'

Agnes launched into the Hedgehog Song, and knew by about word seven that it had been the wrong choice. You needed a tavern, with people leering and thumping their mugs on the table. This big brilliant emptiness just sucked at it and made her voice hesitant and shrill.

She stopped at the end of verse three. She could feel the blush starting somewhere around her knees. It'd take some time to get to her face, because it had a lot of skin to cover, but by then it'd be strawberry pink.

She could hear whispering. Words like 'timbre' emerged from the susurration and then, she wasn't surprised to hear, came 'impressive build'. She did, she knew, have an impressive build. So did the Opera House. She didn't have to feel good about it.