It had not fallen as thickly along Brixton Hill as it did in Berkeley Square and the royal parks of London, but the red-brick wall was capped in white, and underfoot the snow lay deep enough to leave lasting footprints wherever Hélène stood. Nervously, she crouched and helped Sybil – wrapped up in the woollen coat Noelle had stitched for her – totter off into the white. Watching her walk was a revelation, thought Hélène. Every time she came here, Sybil was less her baby girl and more her growing daughter. This time, Hélène thought, her face was less rounded. Her eyes were changing colour. Her hair had a new wildness to it. She reminded her so much of Sidney.

‘That’s enough, girls,’ called Noelle Archer from the doorway. ‘You don’t want to catch a chill.’

Inside, a log fire was burning beneath a mantel bedecked in cards. The Archers always went to great lengths to decorate their home at Christmas. It stemmed, Hélène knew, from those first years after they emigrated – because to embrace a country’s traditions was to embrace the country itself, and there was nothing their children enjoyed more than the English tradition of Christmas, so different to the Christmases they were used to back in Jamaica. The portraits of Sidney, Samantha and Joseph were now framed with tiny paper snowflakes. It made Hélène’s heart ache to think of Noelle sitting here, peacefully drawing them with Sybil looking on. All the little moments of magic, the waking up to wonder and enchantment that she was missing while she toiled in the ballroom. At least for today and tomorrow she might not think of that majestic place at all. She might forget the clammy touch of Nathaniel White . . .

Noelle brought down the box of card, ribbons and string she had secreted away, while Maurice Archer busied himself with his shovel and stepped out into the front yard.

‘That man thinks he can fight winter itself!’ Noelle shrieked. Then, seeing the way Hélène was staring at the home-made decorations, she leaped to attention. ‘Let’s make more. We can all do it together. Sybil, you can help. But stay away from your grandmother’s scissors, girl, or they’ll come a-snipping after you.’

Helping Sybil clutch a pencil; cutting out the strange, many-pointed stars she somehow managed to draw; seeing her giggle with delight as Hélène dangled them above her, only just out of reach. These things make all the tensions of my other life ebb away. All I really want is you, Sybil.

Hélène could almost imagine that New Year was not going to happen at all. Across the last days, Nathaniel had been instructing her in his new routine. It was a showy, ostentatious thing, a dance that kept Hélène firmly in the background while Nathaniel showed the world exactly what his body could do – but it was not as impressive as he seemed to think; a dance could only ever inspire real awe when two people were working together. But what Nathaniel White wanted, Nathaniel White got. He had even instructed her in the gown she was to wear, and what Venetian mask would cover her face.