I hadn’t seen much of the house last night. I only knew that my bedroom was on the ground floor. I crept down a short corridor into a kind of courtyard, open to the sky. Everything was quiet, only the sound of birds and a clock ticking somewhere. Was Langham sleeping now? Did he wear fine, satin pyjamas? Was he brought his breakfast on a delicate tray? A staircase wound up to a balcony, where the bedrooms must be. I wanted to walk up there, explore dressing rooms and bathrooms and lounges. Instead, I turned, and found my way back to the kitchen.

It had been cleaned, scrubbed of the previous night’s mess and debris. A basket of fruit stood on the table, as though just delivered; apricots and melons, prickly pears and yellow plums. There was no one around to see, so I helped myself. The plums were mottled like the gold of a church altar; they had a drowsy sweetness which filled my mouth. I took another.

Outside, the sun was burning through the freshness of dawn. All around was gentle birdsong, the sound of water. I stepped on to the path, examining the place in daylight.

High white walls surrounded the garden of Dar Portuna. The house was perched on the very edge of the city: on one side were the narrow streets, on the other the remains of old crumbling fortifications, and a steep slope, running all the way down to the port. Citrus trees lined the walls, their dusty leaves hiding orbs of yellow. An old fig tree stood, bent-backed, in one corner. The paths had been swept, last night’s revels tidied away. I came to a stone bench next to a star-shaped fountain, where lilies grew, water caught in their throats. Here, in this garden, the sharp edges of the world were held at bay. Something only the rich could afford: such peace in the heart of a city.

‘Del Potro.’

I spun around, like a guilty thing.

Lady Bailey stood watching me, her pale hair ruffled above her chin, a blue embroidered robe dragging on the ground. I met her gaze. The last time I’d seen her, she had been lying on a pile of cushions with a silver pipe in her hand.

‘You stayed,’ she said.

I remembered some manners, and dropped my gaze. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I said, you stayed.’ She came towards me, to sit on the bench.

‘Yes.’ I backed up a few paces. ‘Monsieur Langham has given me a room, near the kitchens. I am to be the new cook.’

She looked at me, her grey eyes hard. ‘He never lets people stay. They can drink until the sun comes up, so long as they go home at the end. Why is it different for you?’

I remembered Langham’s face, close to mine in the darkness of the study – the strange tension between us as he asked for my loyalty.