‘How long ago was that?’

‘Maybe five years?’

‘He’s boxing now, I hear,’ said another. ‘Goes by Laddie Lightning.’

I jerked my head up. They were talking about Madame. The boy in the portrait. I strained to hear more but by then they had moved away.

All afternoon I’d been dreading the moment when I’d have to bed down in her room. Dressing her in the mornings was still terrible, but habit had taught me endurance. I knew undressing her would be even worse.

She sat on her bed. I bent to unlace her boots, thudding each one to the carpet. She snapped the buttons on her fall-fronts herself, shrugged off her shirt, and unhooked her bindings. I reached out, carefully, to take the clothes from her, bring her gown. And it wasn’t as bad as I’d feared, though my head felt like an empty room, from trying not to look. Not to think. Only a glimpse of dimpled thigh, curve of bone at the hip, the scuttle of dark hair when she shook out the coiled plaits. Then I had this one cold, clear thought. Clear like writing. This kind of wanting is nothing but begging.

I rolled out my pallet in front of the fire, thinking I’d never sleep. But I must have, for I dreamed that I woke to find the Surgeon slouched in one of the armchairs, working his knife across the strop. And one! And-two-and! One-and-two-and –

He could tell I was awake. I’d gone still as a grass snake. ‘Found you,’ he said, pausing the blade. He snicked his thumb along it, lifted it to lick off a bead of blood. ‘This thing’s never sharp enough now, gel. You were the one with the knack for it.’ His voice went through me like a bell-strike. Clang. I scrabbled to my feet, but he laid a finger on his lips. ‘Hush. She’s sleeping’. Only then did I look over at Madame. The top of her skull doffed like a boy’s cap, the dusty flower of brain deep in the bowl. ‘So little eggs-han-gwination when they’ve been dead a long time,’ he said.

Then came an icy gush of terror, so swift I felt I was fainting. It was then that I came awake.

This time, Madame was in the chair. Wearing a shawl over her nightgown. The fire was dying out, but still golden on her face, her loosened hair. Everything they say beauty is supposed to be, she was. She looked up. ‘Did I wake you?’

I pushed onto my elbows. Oh, if she knew what I was thinking. What if I was a gentleman, who’d met you at Almack’s? Bent over your gloved hand? Pressed my lips to your knuckles? What then?

I saw myself giving a tongue flick to soft kid.

Her pulse a hummingbird at her throat.

No one else watching.

I saw us fencing in a dimly lit room.

I sat up. ‘Should I get fresh coals for your pan?’