‘A parcel?’ Rosa frowned. Who would be sending her a parcel, here? ‘What kind of parcel?’

‘A big one, miss. With a London postmark.’

‘Do you think there’s time for you to bring it up before the last breakfast gong?’

‘Oh, bless you, miss, yes. The breakfast things will be out for an hour or more yet. Mr Sebastian never makes it down before ten, and we don’t expect the house guests to tumble out of bed like ninepins. I’ll bring it up in a trice and you can open it comfortably before you go down.’

Rosa had finished her tea by the time the girl came back with the parcel. It was, as she’d said, a big one. The box was too wide to go through the door sideways so the girl had to turn it on end. Then she laid it on the bed.

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to have a little something on a tray, Miss Greenwood? Some buttered toast, perhaps, or a soft-boiled egg.’

A soft-boiled egg? Rosa thought of the magnificent spread on the first morning – hot chafing dishes full of sausages, devilled kidneys and crisp bacon, scalding porridge with cream, piles of golden potato cakes and hot mushrooms swimming in butter and juice.

‘No thank you, honestly—’ She scrabbled for the girl’s name but it didn’t come. ‘I’d just as soon go down. I promise I’ll tell Miss Cassandra it was my own choice.’

‘Very well, miss.’ The girl bobbed a curtsey and left, and Rosa turned with greedy curiosity to the big box.

It was wrapped in brown paper and string, and sealed with red wax, but there was no sealing mark – just blobs on the knots – and the postmark was Piccadilly, which could have meant everything and nothing.

But as she tore back the paper a piece of card fell out. She picked it up, and letters began to appear, scrawling across the thick card in Clemency’s large, looping hand.

From your fairy godmother, darling. You SHALL go to the ball.

Rosa held her breath as she pulled back the lid of the box. Beneath the ivory cardboard was more ivory, masses of it, like a frothing snowy sea. As she pulled it out the folds fell away and in her arms was a dress – not just a dress, the most beautiful dress she could have imagined. It was made of ivory silk embroidered with hundreds of tiny green leaves, twining and wreathing up the bodice, looping around the narrow waist, trailing in garlands down the flowing train.

‘Oh, Clemmie!’ Rosa whispered. She held the dress to her bosom. It was too beautiful to be hers. Writing began scrawling across the piece of card.

My dressmaker had your measurements from the habit and I couldn’t resist – I knew when Philip mentioned a ball on the last night what your predicament would be. Please don’t be angry! You can pay me back after you’re married. Yours, with impudence and love, Clemmie.

P.S. Bonne chasse!

As she watched, the ink faded into the paper and the card was blank. Only the dress remained.

Rosa knew she should be angry with Clemency. And part of her was. But beneath that was a frothing, bubbling excitement. She could go to the ball. And with this dress, she need not spend all night trying to hold her gloves to cover the shabby, worn places, and stand to hide the spell-patched stains. In this dress she could dance, she could flirt. She could match any other woman in the room.

Bonne chasse, Clemency had written. Good hunting. Oh, Cherry . . .

‘I told ’em,’ the old man said sadly.

‘What?’ Luke raised his head and turned from scrubbing down Cherry’s empty stall. His head felt dull and thick, as if he’d drunk too much gin the night before and overslept. In fact he’d drunk nothing but the mouthful of spell-soaked wine, and hardly slept at all.

‘I told ’em about that bridge. And now a good ’orse is dead. How come ee didn’t warn the lassie, eh? I tried to tell ee.’

Luke rubbed his face, trying to clear his head. He’d been expecting the question. Thank God the old man had chosen to ask it when they were alone in the stables.

‘I did tell her,’ he said, the lie black and bitter on his tongue. ‘I called out. But she was ahead of me and I couldn’t make her hear.’

The old man sighed and shook his head.

‘Ah, that sounds right enough. These young ladies, ’eadstrong they is. Not like in my day. You wouldn’ta caught a young lady hunting back then. They’re not strong enough for it. Well, thank the blessed Lord twas only a horse died, and not the young lady. Back to Lunnon town tomorrer, eh? You’ll be glad to be back on your own turf again, I’ll be bound.’

Luke nodded, but his heart felt anything but glad. He had spent the night trying to think of a way out of this trap. He could not go back to Spitalfields – not without Rosa’s blood on his hands. Could he stay in Knightsbridge, with the family, somehow? But the Malleus would come looking for him; he would be found and killed.

Which left only one option: flight. He would have to run away, never to see Spitalfields again. Never to see William, or Minna, or any of his friends. Never to be a Brother in the Malleus. He would spend his life on the road looking behind him, over his shoulder, waiting for the knife, the rope, the hand in the dark.

And Rosa. She would stay. Would they come for her too? He didn’t know. Her name had been chosen, which meant that she had to die. The thought gave him a strange cold pang deep in his chest. She’s a witch, he told himself savagely. She can take care of herself.

But the picture that floated before his eyes in the dim warmth of the stable was just a girl, a girl with no inkling that she was doomed.

‘Best look sharp now,’ the old man was saying. ‘The first of the carridges’ll be arriving soon and they’ll be wanting that stall.’

‘Carriages?’ Luke said stupidly. ‘What carriages?’

‘What carridges!’ The old man laughed, but kindly. ‘What carridges, he arsts, as if he’s been in Timbuktoo the great while. Why, there’s a ball tonight. The Knyvets allus throw a great ball the last night of the house party, and then they returns to London for the rest of the season. It’s the finest thing for miles around, and the great lords and ladies come from all over the county, aye, and from London too.’

‘They’re saying summat else too, tonight,’ came a voice from over their shoulders, and turning Luke saw a tall cheerful lad that he half recognized from the servants’ hall. He searched his memory for a name; it didn’t come, but he remembered who the lad was: Knyvet’s groom.

‘Wassat then, young Wilkes?’ said the old man.

‘They’re saying in the servants’ hall as there’ll be an engagement announced.’

‘An engagement?’ Luke said sharply. He didn’t know why the suggestion hurt like a hot coal.

‘Aye. Seemingly Mr Sebastian sent down to the safe for his grandmother’s engagement ring. An’ I don’t suppose he wants it for his own finger.’

They laughed together, Wilkes and the old man, companionable and low.

‘Who’s it for?’ Luke’s grip was hard on the shaft of the broom, until he felt it might snap between his fingers.

‘Who’s the lucky girl, you mean?’ Wilkes said. The laughter was still in his eyes as he answered. ‘Well, that’d be telling. But there’s nothing like a scrape with the hereafter to make a chap realize how much he values a lady.’

‘And who says she’ll say yes?’ Luke demanded. He knew that his voice was full of an anger they’d never understand, that his face was stiff with a fury he had no right and no reason to feel.

‘Who says she’ll accept?’ Wilkes’ round pleasant face was astonished. ‘Well, man, I dare say your young miss is very pretty an’ all, but you don’t have to be the sharpest tool in the box to see that her family’s on its uppers. Why d’you think she’s been sent here like a bait on a string, if not to catch a fish?’

Something welled up inside Luke, hot as molten iron, scalding inside his chest and his gullet and his skull, until he felt he’d run mad with it.

He tried to speak, but no words came. Instead he let the broom fall to the floor and ran from the stable.

‘How tight did you say you laced, miss?’ the maid asked again.

‘Eighteen inches,’ Rosa said. Mary shook her head.

‘Well, I’m sorry, miss, but the dress won’t fasten. It must have been made for seventeen.’

Damn it. Damn Clemency and her fashionable notions. She must squeeze into the dress. She had no other.

‘Very well. Seventeen.’

She shrugged her way out of the dress and Mary undid the corset laces and began to pull again. Rosa shut her eyes.

‘Hold on to the bedpost, miss.’

Rosa gripped the polished mahogany, feeling the intricate carvings dig into her fingers as she clutched the post for support. She held her breath, feeling the bones dig, and dig . . . Her rib where the corset bone had gone in gave a sharp twinge and she almost cried out.

Then Mary gave an exclamation and let go.

‘It’s done.’ She put a tape around Rosa’s waist and said with satisfaction, ‘Seventeen and one eighth. Will you try the dress again, miss?’

Rosa stepped into it and stood before the glass, feeling Mary’s fingers at her spine as she fastened the dozens and dozens of tiny buttons, one after another.

‘Perfect,’ Mary breathed at last, and Rosa looked down at herself and then into the mirror.

She hardly recognized herself. The dress fell away in stiff folds that made her look taller, and above the full flowing mass of ivory and green her waist looked impossibly small, even smaller than she would have believed herself, in spite of the pain in her hips and ribs. The neckline was demure – but it dipped ever so slightly in the centre and her breasts, compressed by the tight corset, swelled above, looking whiter than white against the ivory silk and dark-green embroidery.

Mary had put her hair up and dressed it with real leaves – ivy and yew, the same deep winter green as the embroidered vines on her dress.

‘And what about your jewels, miss? That locket’s pretty enough but . . .’

‘I have none,’ she said honestly. Mary smiled over her shoulder at Rosa’s reflection in the mirror.

‘For another young lady I should say, what a shame, but for you, miss, tonight, you have no need of them.’

‘Thank you,’ Rosa whispered. She swallowed.

‘And anyway,’ Mary lowered her voice, and her eyes were suddenly alight with mischief, ‘if the gossip in the servants’ hall is right, after tonight, you may have one jewel at least.’

‘What do you mean?’ Rosa turned to frown at her. ‘What kind of jewel?’

‘A ring,’ Mary said. Her cheeks dimpled in a smile and then she bobbed a curtsey. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, miss, I’ve still to see Miss Cassandra and Miss Restorick up the corridor. Will there be anything else?’

For a moment Rosa could not find her voice; she only stood, with her hand gripped on the locket, her thoughts whirling and tumbling like a flock of crows in the sky. Then she remembered the maid’s question.

‘No, thank you, Mary,’ she said. Her voice was low.

After Mary left, Rosa sank to the bed. Her face in the tall glass was white as chalk, her eyes dark and huge against the pale skin. For a moment she could hardly breathe – she thought she might faint, and she almost pulled the bell to call Mary back to loosen her corset and give her some air.

Then her hammering heart began to slow and the colour crept back into her cheeks.

Was it true? Could it be true?

Tonight. Everything Mama and Alexis had fought for – everything could be achieved, tonight, if Sebastian asked just one simple question and she said one single word in reply: yes.

Suddenly she knew she was about to be sick. She ran to the washstand and stood, her hands splayed on the wood either side of the basin, her forehead prickling and wet with sweat. Her stomach heaved against the tight constriction of the corset and she choked, but nothing came up. It was hours since she had eaten. There was nothing to vomit.

The mirror above the washstand reflected back a stranger with dark, frightened eyes.

She knew what Mama would say: This is normal. It’s normal to feel nervous. This is the biggest decision of a woman’s life.

Perhaps it was normal to feel nervous. But was it normal to feel afraid?

17

‘Miss Rosa Greenwood!’ The announcement rang out across the crowded ballroom, but no heads turned. Rosa swallowed and looked out across the throng.

She had never seen so many fashionable men and women in one room. They made a sea of bodies – the men dark as crows in their evening dress, the women kingfisher-bright in silk and satin. Jewels flashed in the light from the chandeliers: diamonds, rubies, emeralds; the thousand candles making white shoulders and throats seem whiter still.