He found Markus at a bench, nursing an empty tankard. Krisztina sat beside him. When they spied him, their eyes widened in surprise. Markus jumped to his feet with a laugh and embraced Lukacs, slapping him hard on the back. Krisztina welcomed him with a smile that made his heart pound and his stomach flip.

It was strange seeing her without a fog of alcohol clouding his judgement. She aroused him still, but she was not as pretty as he remembered, nor as clean. His tongue left him and he mumbled a greeting at her, noting as he did that she wore the same dress as before. It was grubby and stained, but accentuated her curves no less as a result.

He suggested drinks and Markus congratulated him heartily. Soon Lukacs was swigging back mouthfuls of beer and laughing as his friend related the week's events, the highlight of which seemed to have been a riverside collision between a merchant and two sailors lugging a barrel of spoiled fish.

They talked, joked, drank. As the beer flowed, and Markus became more animated and less observant, Lukacs traded glances with Krisztina, and her flirtation became more daring. Once, beneath the table, her leg b.u.mped against his and he almost leaped off his stool with surprise. He cursed himself for blushing.

Finally Markus, red-faced, pulled himself to his feet. 'A p.i.s.s!' he announced, staggering into the noise of the crowd.

Heart racing, Lukacs met Krisztina's eyes. 'I would ask an imposition of you, if you would allow it.'

The corners of her mouth twitched. She leaned forward and planted her elbows on the table, cradling her chin on her fingers. 'I would allow it.'

He cleared his throat, stared at the table. 'There's something I would like to discuss with you. Alone.'

'I see.'

Lukacs glanced back up at her. Her expression was flat, one eyebrow raised in a challenge. He decided to test his luck. 'Your answer?'

Her smile returned. 'I'm intrigued to hear what it is.'

'Good. I confess, though, I don't know how to engineer an opportunity for me to tell you without . . .'

'Markus.'

'You see my dilemma.'

She chewed her bottom lip. 'Do you know the new statue of the king, on the riverbank?'

He nodded. Krisztina opened her mouth to continue just as Markus arrived back at the table. She clamped her lips shut.

Frustrated, Lukacs ordered more drinks. They bantered for another hour. By the time Krisztina stood up, he was drunk.

She placed a hand on her chest and turned to Markus. 'You know, I think I'm going to leave you two rogues to it. I've an early start, and last week my head hurt all day after you both led me astray like that.'

Laughing, Markus waved her off. Lukacs continued to drink for another ten minutes, then picked up his coat.

Markus frowned. 'You're going too? Already?'

'Things to do, I'm afraid,' he said. 'But I enjoyed it.' He rolled some coins towards his friend. 'That should see you through.'

Markus s.n.a.t.c.hed up the money. 'You, sir, are a gentleman among gentleman. Will I see you again?'

'Oh, I'll definitely see you again.'

Shrugging on his frock coat as he left the tavern, Lukacs hurried down to the river. Night had fallen, and the moon was hidden behind a bank of cloud. It was far darker along the riverbank than he had been expecting.

He found Krisztina leaning up against the statue of Franz Joseph. She pushed herself away from it as he approached, and fell in step with him.

'Let's keep walking,' she said.

Lukacs nodded. He stole glances at her as they strolled along the bank, and she met his eyes once, her expression unreadable. The expectation that hung between them was palpable. The air crackled with it. He told himself to savour the moment, and he tried to absorb every detail of her: the swish of her dress as it rubbed against her legs, the sway of her hips, the taunting shadow of her cleavage.

'For someone who wanted to talk,' she said, 'you're remarkably quiet.'

Lukacs went to the railing overlooking the water. He leaned against it. Krisztina came to a stop beside him, so close that he thought he could feel the heat radiating from her.

For the first time he noticed her smell. Not the delicate perfume of the coiffured hosszu elet ladies. This was an earthy smell, a musk of sweat and woman and s.e.x that filled his nose, overpowered his airways and inflamed him. It made him feel nervous and joyous and invincible all at once.

'You know exactly what you do, don't you?' he said.

She turned towards him and looked up, her face inches from his own. 'Do I?'

Lukacs reached out and pulled her to him, pressing his mouth to hers. She responded instantly, parting her lips and pushing her tongue into his mouth. He nearly cried out, outraged at the filthiness of the act yet fired with l.u.s.t as their saliva mingled and he tasted her.

Her hands reached up to caress his shoulders. They moved around to the front of his chest and lingered there as the kiss deepened, and then with unexpected force she shoved him away.

Krisztina panted, grinning, eyes greedy for him but shaking her head. 'That's all you get, Lukacs. I'd love to, but no more.'

'What's wrong?' He moved towards her but she held him at bay with a single finger.

'You. Me. This. It's wrong, and we both know it. Markus might be Markus, but what I've got with him has a future, at least. This doesn't.'

Lukacs frowned. 'Why not?' He lunged at her but she pushed him off easily, laughing.

'Why not? Are you joking? Look at you your fine clothes, your gold watch. I've never seen such wealth so naively displayed. I live in a house with two rooms and share it with my parents and six siblings. My father works the river and I wash linen for a pittance. You'll ride home tonight in a carriage, no doubt. I know what you want. And I'm a silly girl for being tempted. But it's not yours to take.'

His l.u.s.t, frustrated, became annoyance. 'Why isn't it?'

Krisztina's eyebrows creased and her eyes flashed with anger. 'You think your purse can buy a night with me, is that it?'

'It's bought two nights with you.'

She slapped him.

He slapped her back. Hard.

Krisztina cried out, more in indignation than pain. She touched her hand to her cheek. Eyes narrowed, she backed away from him. 'Don't ever come near me again, Lukacs,' she spat. Gathering up her skirts, she marched off.

Lukacs's fingers stung where he had slapped her cheek. He was breathing hard: from excitement, from anger, from arousal. The smell of her lingered in his nostrils, her taste on his lips. He watched her stride along the bank of the Danube until the night wrapped her up in its arms.

Lukacs's scowl of anger became a smirk.

The third vegzet was conducted without masks. It represented the symbolic entry of the hosszu eletek youth into adulthood, and allowed the partic.i.p.ants to interact free of the constrictions of childhood. It was also the first time the celebrants could make known any interest they bore. Potential partnerships would be weighed and judged by the tanacs at the final vegzet. Appropriate matches would be approved, and courtship could begin.

Although he did not consider it a blessing, Lukacs knew that to have two siblings was a rarity. Hosszu eletek did not produce offspring easily, and even then for only a short period in their lives. The low birth count, along with the extreme nature of their longevity, meant that the entire community had an interest in the successful courtships of its youth.

Lukacs had been making alternative preparations.

His last encounter with Krisztina had incensed him at first. He could understand just about the scorn of the amba.s.sador's b.i.t.c.h, but rejection by a Buda tavern s.l.u.t was a different matter. He would not let it stand. He had felt the changes within him accelerating during the last few weeks. Despite the pair of rejections perhaps, ironically, because of them he was feeling comfortable with himself for the first time in his life, and could see a future where he made his own decisions free of the constraints imposed by the tanacs.

He could not, obviously, attend the third vegzet. Although the consequences of his continued absence loomed closer now, he viewed the coming confrontation with Jozsef as the fulcrum on which his new life would turn.

When he told his father he wanted to revisit the city, Jozsef lent him a horse, gave him money and ushered him out of the house, professing his delight at the changes he was witnessing in his son. Lukacs used the opportunity to go drinking with Markus and Krisztina.

The atmosphere at the table that night amused him greatly. He knew Krisztina could not divulge what had happened between them. She had too much to lose. Lukacs sat there laughing with Markus, ignoring her until she made flush-faced excuses and left them. Together, the two young men drank late into the night, swapping stories and details of each other's lives.

Lukacs mined Markus for information on how the low-born citizens of the city lived. He needed to learn a great deal, and quickly. He asked questions about his friend's work, his home life, where he ate, his courtship of Krisztina and the places he had visited up and down the Danube. As long as the beer flowed, Markus was happy to answer any question he asked.

This afternoon, crossing the chain bridge to Buda on the third vegzet of the summer, Lukacs travelled in his carriage alone. This time he did not even bother with a subterfuge. He paid the driver a large tip and asked him to convey him directly to Markus's workplace.

At the Ujvari boatyard, amid the stench of boiling pitch and the clattering of hammers, he found his friend planing the raised hull of a de-masted river schooner. When Lukacs's carriage pulled up and he stepped out of it, Markus straightened and whistled, long and low. 'h.e.l.l's teeth, Lukacs, you travel like a king, don't you? I reckoned you was a proper gentleman, but just look at the bra.s.s on that thing.' He watched the carriage speed away, wiping sweat from his forehead. 'What are you doing here?'

Lukacs clapped the young man on the back. 'I know you meet Krisztina on Tuesdays, but I was in the area. I thought I'd see if my hard-working friend needed a beer to quench his thirst before he met his sweetheart.'

'Do I ever!' Markus shook his head. 'I keep asking myself what I did to deserve b.u.mping into a fellow like you.'

They spent two hours throwing back tankards of beer in an alehouse around the corner. Lukacs laughed heartily at his friend's jokes, and was gratified to see that he could make the boatwright smile at the anecdotes he invented of his life at home. 'Markus,' he said. 'There's something I would ask you.'

'Ask away.'

'It's a trifle . . . delicate.'

'Do I look like I offend easily? Go on out with it.'

'I've decided to leave Hungary,' Lukacs said, bizarrely pleased by the disappointment he saw in the young man's eyes. 'My father isn't going to like my decision. In fact, no one is going to like it. I've been making plans, but I need your help to look after a few things once I've left.'

'Then you've got it.'

Lukacs nodded. 'I'm grateful. Just a few ends that need tying. Perhaps you'd accompany me back to my lodgings and I can show you what I need. I've rented a suite at the Albrecht.'

Markus raised his eyebrows. 'They probably won't even let me inside.'

'Yes, they will. You'll be with me.'

The Albrecht was a grand hotel, five minutes' walk from the Ujvari yard. A porter outside its imposing frontage opened the door for them, greeting Lukacs while examining Markus with disdain. In the lobby, Lukacs approached the desk and waited for the concierge to spot him.

'Ah, Mr Gyorgy, sir. How wonderful to see you. Your room has been prepared, I am pleased to say.'

'Thank you. I don't wish to be disturbed.' He pushed a coin across the counter and the concierge bowed, handing him his key.

Leading Markus up to the third floor, Lukacs unlocked the door to his suite and went inside. At a drinks cabinet, he selected two crystal tumblers and poured whisky into them. He handed one to his friend.

Markus slugged it back in a single gulp and wiped his mouth. 'I'll do another one of those.'

'Gladly.'

'Look at this place, Lukacs. Four-poster, lace on the cabinet.' He went to the bed, reaching out his hand. 'Just feel these sheets. Smell them.'

Lukacs laughed at the wonder in the young man's voice. 'Have you seen the view?'

Markus knocked back a second whisky, put down his empty tumbler and walked to the window, looking out at the street below. He shook his head, marvelling at what he saw. 'I could live like this. I really could.'

'Could you? You might think so, but don't be so sure. I can't. And I won't. You don't know the restrictions that go with this kind of life, Markus. It has its advantages, admittedly. Its comforts. But it brings with it complications that stop you taking any enjoyment.' Lukacs found that articulating those feelings made him feel morose. He changed the subject. 'Where are you meeting Krisztina tonight?'

'Near the church of Saint Anne on Batthyany ter.'

'No, you're not.' Lukacs clubbed the young man around the head with the whisky bottle. Lips curled back from his teeth in a snarl of excitement, he was grateful when his makeshift weapon did not fracture or explode. Markus spun as he fell, tangling in the floor-length curtains before pitching forwards on to the floor, where he lay still.

Lukacs returned the bottle to the cabinet and began to strip off Markus's clothes. It was an unpleasant task. Boat-building was energetic work, and as he removed his friend's underclothes he winced at the stench rising from his body.

Halfway through, Lukacs realised that he had not checked to see if Markus was still alive. Admonishing himself, he lifted an eyelid, and when that exploration revealed nothing, he lowered his ear to the young man's mouth. The moist air rising from his lips confirmed he was still breathing. Lukacs was gratified by that discovery too. He had not known how hard he would need to hit Markus to knock him out, and so he had put all his force into the blow. While he only wished to incapacitate his friend, he'd accepted that the blow might kill him. He examined Markus's head and felt the large swelling that had risen there. But there was no softness to the skull. He hadn't shattered bone.

Once Marcus was completely naked, Lukacs reached under the bed for the lengths of rope he had stowed there. He tied his friend's hands together, his feet, and lashed him to the legs of the heavy four-poster. He made a gag from a flannel and a piece of twine. Testing all his knots, satisfied that his friend could neither escape nor broadcast his whereabouts, Lukacs stripped off his own waistcoat and shirt and draped them on the bed.

Squatting on the floor, he ripped a chunk of auburn hair from Markus's head and walked to the cabinet, depositing the heap on the polished wood. Lukacs studied its colour, then looked up at his face in the mirror.

He had been practising this for weeks. No longer did he cast mere shadow animals on to the wall of his father's toolshed. Jozsef had been right; it did not come easily to him. But he was proud of how far he had come, and of the agonies he had endured to get there.

Gritting his teeth, Lukacs gripped the sides of the cabinet with both hands. He closed his eyes, took three long, deliberate breaths, and pushed.

A million needles p.r.i.c.ked his skull, tattooing his scalp with fire. He concentrated, willing himself not to scream, and pushed again, harder this time. Hitting the barrier where the pain was simply too great, he battered himself against it once, twice, three times, until suddenly it collapsed and he forced his way through.

Lukacs panted for breath. He opened his eyes and saw sweat standing on his brow. His face was a blotch of red and white. Lifting a hand to his head, he tugged at a clump of hair. It pulled loose from his scalp. Lukacs examined the skin beneath and saw a coa.r.s.e stubble of auburn. The colour matched exactly the heap of hair on the cabinet.

Closing his eyes, he endured another minute of suffering, of searing heat in his scalp. A dreadful thirst came upon him. He gulped water from a jug while he recovered his strength.

Going to Markus's body, he began a meticulous examination. He got down on his knees and peered at the man's face from all angles, so close that he could see the individual pores of his nose, the smattering of hair in his nostrils, the wax in his ears, the food crusted at the corners of his mouth. His picked up Markus's right hand and felt its texture, examining the calluses of his fingers, the ripped fingernails and scuffed knuckles. He searched all over for blemishes, birthmarks, bruises or cuts. He inspected the hairs on the man's chest, his nipples, his genitals.

Leaning even closer, he sniffed the breath rising from Markus's mouth, the stink from his armpits. He lowered his face to the mound of pubic hair and inhaled. Recoiling, he moved back up the body, pressing his fingers into muscle, testing the firmness of bicep and tricep, deltoid and pectorals.

Finally satisfied, Lukacs removed the last of his clothes and lay down on the floor next to his friend. Canting his head to one side so that he could still see Markus's body if required, he exhaled fully and closed his eyes.

He would not cry out.

As the agony began, as the fire whipped through him, as his skin stretched and his muscles ripped, as his back arched and the soles of his feet beat upon the floor, Lukacs thought his teeth would crack and his eyes would haemorrhage in his skull. His fingers dug into the wood of the floor, fingernails sc.r.a.ping, knuckles cracking. His heart beat crazily in his chest, so laboured he thought it might burst.

When it was over, he lay there in stupefied paralysis. Tides of pain washed over him. He rode them silently, forcing himself to breathe, to endure, until they gradually began to ebb away.

Shivers of sensation fluttered over his altered shape. He felt the hairs on his body register the tiny movements of air in the room. The ambient sounds of the hotel had a different quality now. He could feel the rush of breath into his lungs more noticeably than before. He brought together the fingers and thumb of one hand, feeling the calluses on the pads.

Opening his eyes, he pulled himself to his knees and crawled on to the bed. Hunger burned in his belly but he had prepared for that. Tearing open a parcel of food, he gorged on spiced meat, hard cheese, sweet cakes. Saliva dripped from his chin. He felt his stomach attacking the food, breaking it down into fuel the moment he swallowed it.

When he had sated his craving, he dressed, went to the cabinet and gulped down the water that remained in the jug. Then, finally ready to see, he lifted his chin and looked into the mirror.

The reflection that stared back at him was a statue, silent and still. After a minute, it bent forwards and examined teeth, nose, lips. It brushed a hand through its hair. Opened its mouth to speak. 'Do I look like I offend easily?' it asked. The reflection turned its head from side to side, touching its cheek, feeling the roughness of its jaw. It took a long breath. And then a smile twisted on its mouth. 'I could live like this,' it said. 'I really could.'

Markus Thury strode out of the hotel suite.