We enclose an artistic rendition in Sybil’s own hand in celebration of this grand occasion.

More news soon, our precious Hélène,

Noelle xxx

Hélène took the last page out of the envelope. On it were the quick, urgent scribbles of a fifteen-month-old’s hand. The paper had torn where Sybil’s chubby fist had clutched the pencil, then worked ferociously to make marks across the page.

Hélène’s heart was pounding. She should have been feeling delight – and she was; somewhere deep in the furthest recesses of her heart, she was cheering – but, eclipsing all else, was a kind of . . . grief. Sybil, up on her feet, staggering around the old house in Brixton, cheered on by her grandparents – and all while her mother was beached here in the Buckingham, earning their keep.

I have to do it for you, Sybil. I have to. If there were any other way . . .

The paper strained between her fingers. She was not aware she was crying until two fat teardrops landed on the page, smudging the marks Sybil had made. This seemed the most terrible thing in the world, and Hélène was busy dabbing them dry, trying to preserve this memento of her daughter, when another knock at the dressing-room door announced the appearance of Nathaniel.

Hélène scrabbled to hide the letter and drawing.

Nathaniel was dressed down, but he still held himself with the same imperious air that he did in the ballroom. ‘Hélène,’ he said, ‘I came to tell you: we’ll meet in the studio behind the ballroom before dawn. New Year is coming. We need to change the demonstrations or . . . Well, the guests deserve a little something extra, don’t you think? Something a little more special for the King? I have something in mind, Hélène. I’m sure Mr Charles has already impressed upon you how important these festivities are. Well, I have something that can blow the Imperial away. Follow me and we can give them a New Year to remember.’

Hélène stiffened. Follow you? If he’d caught her a few moments ago, before Billy delivered that letter, she might have resisted. She might have looked him straight in the eye and told him that her choreography had served her and Raymond de Guise well for seasons – that, when they charted new demonstrations, it was for her to decide, not for the upstart new blood in the ballroom, no matter what connections his father might have had. But her mind was still on the letter – so instead she remained silent as she walked past him, up and out of the dressing room, wrapping her arms around herself.

Nathaniel only stared after her. ‘Six o’ clock!’ he called out. ‘Before the breakfast services begin. Be there, Hélène – we’re dancing the new routines in the afternoon demonstrations.’