THE CLOCK TICKED DOWN to the masquerade ball. Across the hotel, not a soul escaped the pounding headaches and aching bones as they returned to their early morning duties. And as Mrs Moffatt marshalled her girls to overturn the rooms being vacated by the Christmas guests, Nancy Nettleton realised, for the first time in her life, that pleasure and pain were inextricably interconnected. It’s little wonder that Father struggled so much to free himself from his laudanum at the end. It’s little wonder that Vivienne Edgerton is so in thrall to her powder. A little drink, a little something, to push the pain away for another day would have been most welcome right now. But instead Nancy pushed on, with Rosa and Ruth, Mrs Moffatt, Mrs Whitehead and all of the rest.

Billy Brogan had not been here to see the Buckingham in its revelries, but as he sloped through the staff entrance and kicked the snow from his heels, he had a similar sinking feeling in his stomach. He was relieved to see that Mr Simenon was not at his post and slipped into the concierge’s office. Returning to the Buckingham Hotel had always been such an exciting endeavour. But now? He started at the sound of the familiar tread of Maynard Charles as he made his rounds. It was not right to be spooked at every little sound. The Buckingham seemed different somehow. Surely it was not what his father had said to him? The feeling had been growing in him all Christmas. Where once every suite had promised a bounty – either an errand he might run for a few coppers, or a titbit he might find and trade back to Maynard Charles – now they seemed traps designed to ensnare him. He was, he decided with his heart beating wildly, in the pocket of too many different people. Serving Maynard Charles was one thing. Eavesdropping on conversations, snooping in some noble’s suite while he was being entertained in the ballroom – these things had always thrilled Billy. But he realised now: he ought not to have read Raymond de Guise’s letter and traded its contents back to Maynard Charles. He ought not to have scurried off to the Midnight Rooms so regularly, bringing back harm with him to the Buckingham halls. Possibly the only thing he was proud of was delivering Hélène Marchmont’s letters back to that address in Brixton so that they did not have to go through the hotel post room – but even then he recalled the moments he had slipped his finger into the envelope, eased it open so that it might be resealed, and read what lay within. Maynard Charles had taught him that secrets were currency, but a new thought had occurred to Billy: secrets are a poison. They’re poisoning me now.