The letter hadn’t worked. In truth, she had known it wouldn’t. The letter was cowardly, and Nancy Nettleton was no coward. So, with the blitz of departing and arriving guests still fizzing around them, she made her approach.

‘Miss Edgerton?’

Vivienne turned around, but seemed to look directly through Nancy.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Edgerton. You may not know this, but it was me who found you when . . .’ Nancy’s words petered into silence. She had seen the look of horror on Vivienne’s face. It only hardened.

‘I’ve got to go,’ Vivienne uttered coldly – and, hailing the doorman, disappeared out of the door. One of her father’s fleet of gleaming black Rolls Royces was wheeling around the square, ready to pick her up. Behind her, Nancy could do nothing but stare.

In the Rolls Royce, Vivienne shook. How dare that chambermaid approach her in the reception hall? How dare she call her by her name? Was that what was becoming of the world? Was all decorum lost? All sense of propriety gone? As if she needed reminding of how undignified it was to be found, lying on the floor of her suite?

The chauffeur was trying to speak with her, but Vivienne closed her eyes and ignored him, as if to do so was to shut out the rest of the world. Her hands were quaking and, of their own accord, they wormed their way into the day bag on her lap. There they discovered the little lavender pouch brought courtesy of Billy Brogan. Inside, the two phials of powder remained intact. As long as they’re intact, I’ll have something to escape to; I don’t have to listen to my mother fawning over my stepfather all through Christmas dinner, or even tolerate them talking about The Problem of Vivienne Edgerton.

Yes, Christmas Day was going to be an intolerable affair, but at least she was out of the confines of the hotel and as long as she had the promise of her powders she would survive it.

*

‘What do you think, Sybil?’ asked Hélène, carrying the child out into the small, frosted yard behind the Archers’ home. ‘Your first snow.’

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.