‘I’m just worried you’ll catch a cold.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I’m starting to sound like my mother.’

‘Right, people. Find me something to wear. It might be something I’m going to be seen dead in, so let’s make it good.’

After their previous search of the room, Elena knew where the clothes were stored. She heaved open the lid of the trunk and started to hold shirts and skirts up. The choice was poor – closing time at a jumble sale poor – and she was about to settle for a set of cast-offs that had come from the backs of those born centuries earlier, when Elena showed her something different.

It was rich and heavy and long, a bright red shot through with gold thread, like something a Spanish princess would wear while escaping from her evil uncle. It was gloriously impractical, with heavy skirt and laced-up bodice, sleeves that started just below the shoulders and a neckline that would get her arrested back in London.

‘That one.’

‘Seriously?’ said Dalip.

‘Oh, come on. It’s gorgeous.’ She held her arms out wide as Elena held it up against her. ‘I’d never be able to afford anything like this, ever. And I can just put it on: it doesn’t matter if it fits perfectly, or whose it really is.’

Dalip shook his head, which just made Mary all the more determined.

‘Go and find your turban, or something. This might take a while.’

Elena gathered up the skirts, and Mary all but crawled inside. Mama padded the wounds on her back with murmurs of concern and squares of torn-up shirt. Luiza pulled the laces tight to hold everything in place, shortening and lengthening them to fit the curve of her back.

She suddenly had shape and form. She stood up straighter and held her shoulders back, instead of in their customary slouch. She dragged her fingers through her hair and away from her face, the oily spirals slipping across the skin at her knuckles.

She was the Red Queen at last, terrible and beautiful, even with – or because of – the bruises and scrapes and cuts that marked and mottled her.

Dalip had found a plain scarf and fashioned a bandanna-style turban out of it, drawing it tight across his forehead and covering his hair. He, still in the dirty orange boilersuit: she, radiant in her finery. He had to turn away, and she felt … She didn’t know what she felt. Pride? Confidence? Something like that. It wasn’t the dress. It wasn’t the way he looked at her. They were simply two signposts to the destination. Part of her, which had always been missing, had snapped into place.

‘Wish us luck,’ she said. Her skirts swished against the floor as she walked to the top of the steps. She’d never had anything that had swished before.