He didn’t return the farewell, didn’t say anything, just stood with his neck bowed and the fury and fear running through his veins like acid.

‘Good riddance!’ Mr James bellowed, and clapped the gate to the mews shut with a sound like thunder. Then he turned to Luke. ‘What in God’s name is going on out here? Consorting with women in full view of the house? What were you thinking?’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Luke kept his voice as even as he could, kept his eyes on his boots, kept his fists clenched. ‘She just came in off the street. I’ve no idea who she is. Was.’

‘Hmph.’ Mr James looked at him from beneath glowering black brows, still suspicious. ‘How did she know your name then?’

‘She didn’t, did she?’ Inspiration flushed over him. ‘She said, “Who’s Luke Welling when he’s at home?”’ Thank God for Minna and her smart mouth.

‘She said goodbye to you,’ James countered.

‘Only after you said my name. She must have heard you. It was just sauce.’

‘Well then, what were you giving her when I came across the yard? I saw you put something into her hand.’

‘It was a bit of lucky heather.’ He’d never thought of himself as a good liar; usually he stammered and tied himself in knots. Now it made him sick, how easily the lies came. He was growing used to deception. It was living side by side with the vile witches, their deceit rubbing off on him. ‘She tried to make me buy it. I said no. I was giving it back.’

Mr James said nothing, only stood with his arms folded across his waistcoat. Then he seemed to make up his mind.

‘Very well, Luke Welling. But if I see her around here again, I’ll give you notice. Now, get yourself upstairs and get packing for the hunting party. I want you ready for the train at six tomorrow. Understood?’

‘Understood,’ Luke said, and then added bitterly, ‘sir.’

12

The trunks stacked in the hall were painted with GREENWOOD in white capital letters, and the labels said Southing. The horses had already left. James was out in the road, blowing the whistle for a hansom cab. Rosa stood in the hallway, buttoning her gloves, and thinking of Cherry shut into the narrow railway carriage, tossing her head nervously as the engine whistled and the speed picked up. She hoped Luke would remember her nosebag and give her a sugar lump when the train started off.

Just then Ellen came down the stairs, her face even grimmer than usual. She was not wearing her coat.

‘What’s the matter? Why aren’t you dressed? We’ll miss our train,’ Rosa said. ‘Where’s Mama and Alexis?’

‘Your brother’s ready. He’s in the library finishing his business.’ Finishing his brandy was what Ellen meant, and they both knew it. ‘But your Mama . . .’ She paused.

‘What?’ Rosa asked.

‘Your Mama’s not coming.’

‘What?’

‘You’d best go up and see her. She’s in bed.’

Rosa didn’t wait. She picked up her skirts and took the stairs two at a time.

Mama was in bed with a cold flannel on her forehead and her eyes closed, but she opened them as Rosa came in.

‘Mama? What’s going on?’

‘I’m unwell.’ She looked it – her face in the dim light was blanched and drawn. ‘I cannot travel.’

‘What? But – but . . .’ Rosa was lost for words. She clenched her hands, feeling the kid strain across her knuckles. ‘How can I go to Southing unchaperoned?’

‘You’ll have Alexis. He will have to do.’

‘And my dress,’ Rosa cried. ‘What about my dress, Mama?’

‘I’m sure you can think of something,’ Mama said faintly. Rosa drew a breath, trying to keep calm, trying not to give way to the fury with angry words.

‘How, precisely, Mama? It’s one thing to take out a stain or change the colour of a skirt. It’s quite another to magic myself up a dress out of thin air. I couldn’t do it any more than I could sew one! And even if I could, you know what Sebastian would think if he saw me at his ball in a dress spun from charms and air. Do you want me to advertise the fact that we are too poor to afford a real ball gown? Because—’

‘Rosamund, that is enough.’ Mama sat up, her face suddenly angry. ‘I have had enough of your selfishness. Now – all this arguing is making my headache worse. Go. And make sure Alexis doesn’t miss the train.’

It was dark when the train drew into Southing station.

‘Southing!’ bellowed the stationmaster. ‘Anyone for Southing alight here.’

‘Wake up!’ Rosa shook Alex’s shoulder and they stumbled out of the first-class carriage and on to the station platform. For a moment Rosa could see nothing but steam and smoke, just lights twinkling through the white drifting clouds. Then the train gave a wheesh and a whistle and was off, and the platform began to clear.

‘Mr and Miss Greenwood?’ enquired a voice from behind them and Rosa swung round. A groom in neat livery was standing beside the exit, a porter next to him, with their trunks piled on his trolley.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Come this way, please – miss, sir. My name is Cummings. Mr Sebastian regrets he couldn’t come himself, but asked me to convey his warmest welcome.’

Outside the carriage stood a boy holding the horses’ heads. The groom handed them up, tipped a coin to the boy and the porter, and then clicked to the horses. At last, with a jerk and a clatter of hooves, they were off.

Rosa sank into the velvet-upholstered cushions and looked about her at the polished walnut gleaming in the light from the carriage lamps, the silk drapes, the hot bricks at her feet. Then she looked down at her skirts, so drab against the raspberry-coloured velvet of the seat. Alexis was not too bad, at least not in the low lamplight of the carriage interior. His boots were irreproachable, his coat well cut and not too worn, and his top hat was new. But his clothes had always been the first priority and he had been full grown when Papa died.

Rosa had long since grown out of the clothes bought in their prosperity and after Alexis’ new suits and clothes were paid for there had somehow never been enough left to pay for extras for her. She hadn’t minded – there seemed little point in new frocks to wear at Matchenham, with only the horses and Mama to mind whether the hems of her skirts were let out and her pinafores frayed. But now, in the luxurious interior of the carriage she saw, more clearly than ever, the worn patches on her thin, cheap cloak and the stains on her skirt. She whispered a spell under her breath and scrutinized the threadbare material, praying to God that the enchantment would hold, in spite of her tiredness, and that Sebastian would not notice the cheap deception. Most men could be relied upon not to see the small charms of vanity – the smoothing of wrinkles, the patching of a frock, the enchantment of grey hairs. But Sebastian was not most men.

‘How far is the house?’ she whispered to Alexis as the coachman tipped his whip to the horses.

‘Oh, not far. Twenty minutes perhaps. Most of it’s Seb’s drive, to be honest. But you’ve been to Southing before, haven’t you?’

‘I don’t think so.’ She looked out of the window at the unfamiliar cottages and the shapes of the hills. The village houses were built of Sussex flint, like those round Matchenham, so they looked homely, but she was sure she had never seen them before. ‘I was never allowed to come when you went for holidays. Perhaps I came with Mama and Papa when I was very small – but I don’t remember if so.’

‘Huh. Perhaps you’re right.’ He turned up his collar and closed his eyes. ‘Hope the sot has made it all right with the horses. Think he knows which end of a train is which?’

‘Don’t be hateful.’ Rosa turned her face to the window, watching the dark countryside flash past. Rain speckled at the windows and in the far-off distance she heard the scream of the train as it disappeared into the night. ‘Does Sebastian know we’re bringing him?’

‘Well, I don’t suppose he thinks we’ve packed the horses in our trunks,’ Alexis drawled.

‘No, that we’re bringing an . . .’ She lowered her voice, even though the coachman was outside the box and could not possibly hear. ‘An outwith.’

‘He knows. We won’t be the only people with an outwith servant. I don’t suppose the Southing servants will be very pleased, but they’ll be used to it. He’ll be out in the stables anyway, so he won’t interfere with the house servants. Now, shut up, do. I’ve a hell of a headache and your chatter isn’t helping.’

Rosa was about to snap back a retort, but there was a sudden rumble as they passed over a cattle grid and then two huge gateposts and a gatekeeper’s cottage loomed out of the darkness. She pressed her face to the glass, her anger forgotten as she peered into the night.

The drive wound through woods and fields, and she realized that Alexis had not been joking when he said that most of the twenty-minute drive was within the grounds of Southing. She caught glimpses between the trees: tall chimneys, glinting golden lights. But the architect who had built Southing had seated it in the landscape so that you never saw the house itself until the last possible moment – and then suddenly it was there, in one breathtaking sweep, as the carriage rounded the last curve of the drive.

‘Oh . . .’ Rosa breathed. Her breath frosted the glass, making golden halos of the lamps that lit the carriage drive and the tall pillared porch.

A footman stepped forward to open the carriage and she stepped, as if in a dream, into the cold country night, lit by a horned moon, a thousand stars, and the golden light that streamed from the windows of Southing.

‘Miss Greenwood.’

For a minute she couldn’t work out where the voice was coming from, who would be calling her name in this strange place. There was someone coming down the steps, but the light streamed out from the tall doorway, dazzling her eyes. Then she saw. Sebastian.

‘Mr Knyvet.’

He was dressed in evening dress, with a faultless white shirt and tie, and holding a tiny cheroot with a gold-wrapped tip which he threw away as he descended the steps towards her. His head was bare and the lamps shone on his dark-golden hair as he bent over her hand.

‘Miss Greenwood. I am so very, very pleased to welcome you to Southing,’ he said, in his soft, hoarse voice. And he smiled – not his usual sardonic twist of a smile, but a true, wide smile that changed his whole face and made him look more like a boy than a man.

He opened his palm and in his hand was a single rose, made of frost and ice and magic.

‘Se— Mr Knyvet . . .’ Rosa stammered. She looked over her shoulder reflexively, looking for the footman but Sebastian only smiled.

‘Don’t worry, he’s one of us. Take it. I made it for you.’

‘Thank you.’ She took it from his hand. It was perfect – down to every frozen stamen. Even the thorns were sharp enough to prick. She looked down at it, marvelling as it melted, its beauty slipping away through her gloved fingers.

‘Seb!’ There was a squeak of carriage springs and a crunch of gravel as Alexis heaved himself out of the carriage and on to the drive. ‘What ho! Game for a hand of baccarat tonight?’

Rosa looked up and then back down to where the frozen rose had lain. There was nothing left but water.

The elderly white-haired groom was a witch. It was all Luke could think of as he followed in the man’s footsteps, trying desperately to concentrate on everything the man was saying. This stall for Cherry, this for Brimstone, over there was the tack room, but here was where to put the saddles for cleaning. He knew this information was what he’d need to survive – but the man was a witch. Not a very good one – his magic was a fragile will-o’-the-wisp in the night air. But a witch, nonetheless. And it made it impossible to concentrate on what he was saying.

‘Eh, are you listening?’

‘Sorry.’ Luke stumbled. He rubbed his face, feeling his stubble rasp across his palm. He needed a shave and a wash, but most of all a good night’s sleep. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said, now the horses are settled, I’ll show ee to tha room. Where’s tha traps, boy?’

‘My traps?’ Luke echoed stupidly. The old man’s country burr was hard to understand.

‘Tha traps – bags, kit. What do ee call ’em in Lunnon?’

‘Oh.’ Luke shook himself. He’d got so used in London to the servants’ hall being a refuge away from their kind, it was doubly strange to find one of them here, on what felt like safe ground. ‘Sorry. I left ’em in the yard.’