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produce a reaction “sufficiently intense”?
    â€œSir… when I woke up today, I was expecting it to be the start of my successful opera career. Finally, finally! I’d written a libretto that made the opera shine—instead of the words and story being a silly adjunct to the music and singing. The audience cheered themselves speechless. Angelotti and the stage crew joked that the noise would shift the roof-beams.”
    Conrad rubbed the heel of his hand over his eyes, feeling the last sensitivity of hemicrania in the right socket. The migraine seemed centuries in the past.
    It must be… less than two hours.
    â€œAnd this morning—this morning, the opera house is a ruin. I’m arrested for blasphemy. And, apparently, I need to be an atheist to write a libretto for his Majesty of the Two Sicilies. To prevent a miracle.”
    The urge to drop down and sit with his head in his hands was very strong. Conrad straightened up.
    â€œForgive me, sir, I think I must be still asleep and dreaming!”
    Ferdinand’s wry smile was joined by a crisp tone. “Then I suggest you wake up and seize your opportunity with both hands. This is an important decision for you.”
    He broke off, looking grave.
    â€œI apologise. There are only certain other things I can tell you, before you must come to that decision.”
    Conrad opened his mouth to object. He found himself conceding. “I do realise one thing, sir—if you were going to summon me, it ought to have comefrom your Master of Music by a letter to my lodgings; or by a servant if it was urgent. Not from Your Majesty yourself, privately, with Captain Esposito’s help. If this is a secret State matter, then—until and unless I agree to this, the less I know, the better.”
    Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily looked mildly impressed.
    The first time I’ve ever been grateful to my father for lecturing me on the ins and outs of courts.
    Conrad shoved his linen cravat under a painful edge of his steel collar to pad it. His business frame of mind came to him; the one in which he usually dealt with impresarios. It sat oddly out of place with the Bourbon King, but Conrad felt doggedly determined to show responsibility. The more so since his loss of control—however brief, he felt hot behind the ears recalling it.
    â€œThe things I can know, before I need to commit myself to this, are these. You want me to stop an ‘opera miracle’—”
    He had no better word to describe it.
    â€œâ€”By means of another opera. To do what I apparently helped to do at the Teatro Nuovo, but this time not to cause, but—” Conrad searched for an adequate term. “—To overcome—no, to counteract what another opera is doing. At the same time when this other opera attempts their miracle? I don’t see how else it could be done…”
    Ferdinand inclined his head. “Exactly so.—We should move on, in case of gossiping ears.”
    Isn’t this end of the terrace secure enough?
    Conrad swept up the remaining loops of chain and followed the King. They stopped where the area between palazzo and terrace wall was much wider. It overlooked the curtain walls and round towers of the Old Palace, grimly reflected in the Bay. No one can approach anywhere near, without being seen.
    Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily frowned. “You’re hardly the only means by which I intend to stop… the people responsible. If nothing else is successful, however, I’ll need an opera strong enough in every way to wipe their hope of a ‘miracle’ out of existence.”
    Conrad realised he must have looked at a loss.
    He said hastily, “And the subject?”
    â€œIt hardly matters on what subject you choose to write, except that it should be fresh—not the same tired old mad heroines and jealous brothers. And yet it should be broad enough that most men and women will sympathise with it. I need strength of