She’d dressed carefully that morning, looking through her old chest of drawers and wardrobe at the heaps of clothes she had taken for granted. She needed something practical, something that would let her grab the first chance to escape, but also something that would tell her father not to worry. To make him think he’d tamed her. In the end she settled for an old skirt and caraco jacket combination in a sunny yellow printed muslin. The skirt was full enough to let her run, but she skipped the layers of petticoats that would give it its proper shape. The caraco jacket fitted tightly, with lace around the cuffs and ribbon decoration – but a caraco was a Provençal peasant’s garment originally, much in fashion during the Revolution. She pinned her curls from her face, then applied a touch of colour to her lips to finish the look.

The bars on the windows didn’t budge. Her door remained bolted from the outside. The fireplace was blocked – too narrow anyway – and she couldn’t lever up any of the floorboards.

There had to be something.

She refused to be locked away while Al faced death. To be helpless when someone she cared about needed her.

Not again. She couldn’t do this again.

The bolt scraped back, and someone stepped in. It wasn’t her father.

She froze. Dorval! He was alive and standing in her room in his smartly cut suit and wolfish smile, hands clasped behind his back. Shiny pink skin pulled the side of his face taut: a fresh burn.

‘Excuse the intrusion, Mademoiselle Rousset,’ he said, his lips curling over his incisors. ‘I hope I haven’t surprised you.’

She shook her head.

‘I understand you wish to spend some time beyond these four walls? Your father has asked me to be your chaperone.’

Her skin prickled all over as he crossed the room to take her arm.

Dorval led Ada to the parlour where her father’s accounting books were kept. They were alone, and nervously she took her seat in front of the books. Dorval sat slightly too close, sharpening his knife. Every swipe of the whetstone brushed close enough to her thigh that her skin crawled, but never quite touched her. The ink blobbed and blotted as she tried to scratch her way through her father’s household accounts. Dorval’s fingers grazed her knee and she flinched.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Dorval, scraping the whetstone against the blade with a sickening screech.

‘May I ask a question?’ She paused for him to nod. ‘I spent several days with this … girl you are so desperate to get hold of. She is most unusual.’

‘Ah, yes. The creature. It is a strange little monster.’

Ada frowned. ‘You say “it”, monsieur, but surely she is born from the same flesh and blood as you and I?’