His fist flew forward, connecting with Nathaniel’s chin. Nathaniel’s head snapped back. He reeled. Still dazed, he did not notice as Raymond wheeled around with a second fist. This blow caught him on the side of the head and he dropped, unconscious, onto the dressing-room floor.

Raymond loomed over him. ‘Our ballroom isn’t for your glory,’ he uttered, ‘no matter who your father is.’ Then, without turning around, he said, ‘I see it now, Nancy. Vivienne, you’d better—’

‘Vivienne, no!’

At Nancy’s exclamation, Raymond finally turned around. Vivienne had already taken off, up and out of the dressing room. For a moment, Nancy stared into Raymond’s eyes. ‘After her,’ he said. ‘What she said to Hélène, that can wait. Nobody comes into our hotel and treats people like that. Our ballroom isn’t about war. It’s about magic.’ He was tempted to put a boot into Nathaniel, but Sofía LaPegna and the other dancers were already clamouring round. The band had been playing too long already. ‘Go!’ he cried out, and Nancy took flight, rushing after Vivienne.

Raymond bent down, put his arms around Nathaniel and heaved him aside. His mind was still buzzing. Hélène was somewhere out there in the snow. Billy Brogan had gone after her, but there was no hope of her coming back in time – there never had been. Maybe Nancy had been right. People connived and cheated and lied for all manner of reasons. The bastard unconscious underneath him – he’d connived and lied and led people on, all for his personal glory. Was it really possible Vivienne was a victim in all of this?

There was no time to debate the goods and evils of it. His eyes scanned the room, picked out Sofía LePegna. Dropping to his knees, he picked up the black mask that Nathaniel had dropped when he fell. Its strap was still intact. He slipped it over his own eyes.

‘It’s a quickstep,’ he said, listening out for the music. ‘Watch me for the rhythm changes, and follow my lead . . .’

*

In the ballroom, the guests had got to their feet as soon as the dressing-room doors opened and the orchestra walked out to take their places. Then, as soon as they were assembled, a single spotlight flared, picking out the dressing-room door. The doors swung open again – and, into the halo, stepped Archie Adams himself. It was then that the applause went up, filling the ballroom with appreciative thunder. The legendary bandleader paused to soak it up – this was his moment, the finest of the year – and walked purposefully to the stage. The applause was still rolling as he settled behind the gleaming white lacquered grand piano. His orchestra were arranged around him, resplendent in their snowy white jackets and golden collars.