‘How would I know the machinery of heathen business? What I do know is that when you sup with the Devil, you’re best to bring a long spoon.’

I stepped back. ‘I haven’t taken the cat, Mrs Linux. I haven’t eaten him. Nor do I have his bones. If you believe I have, you must take that up with Mr Benham.’

She tipped her head. The buttons of her grey dress stared at me, like hard little eyes. ‘Going, are you?’ she said. ‘Upstairs? Yes. Flee. Fly! Flee to her!’ Her voice followed me, louder and louder. ‘There’s no salvation for you up there! No good thinking there will be.’

Shadows fell across the walls and the bedclothes. It was getting dark, too warm for fires. Books stood sentry in the dim light. On the shelves around the room, on the mantel, on the floor. A line of them, leading to her. I stood clumsy at the door, closed it, and kept my hand behind me on the latch. She was at her desk, and rose when I came in. All was quiet. How long did we stand thus? Long enough to see she was herself again. I watched the little dip in her throat when she swallowed. She laughed. ‘I thought surely you would be frightened of me, after . . .’

She stopped, curved her hands around her waist, as if she were cold. My heart thumped against my ribs.

‘I have been sitting here for several minutes, pretending to write, wondering all this time –’

Oh! The wild shock when I pulled her to me, like that first time I tasted ice. The little bird bones in her shoulders and her neck. I remember how I dipped my head, how we kissed, how she reached up to cover my hands with hers, pulled her head back, laughing.

My head felt so hot and so light I had to press my hands to it. She came against me, solid and warm. I felt her sliding, and then she was on her knees. I felt my own hands in her hair, her hands closing around my waist, and there was a cold fire in every inch of my skin. My eyes flew open, but I saw nothing, only dark. I felt her still. Her fingers dug sharp into my hips and I felt her breath, and when she lifted her head and smiled up at me her lips were shining too.

‘Fran.’ She whispered it against my thigh. ‘Fran.’

When I raised my head, the mirror was before me and I saw myself in it, clutching her head to my waist. There we were. My face, the back of her head, her knees. The whole room hung askew; only the glass was centred.

I looked down. ‘I suppose I’m your secret now.’

She laughed and pulled me to her.

Later she went over to the door and put her ear against it. Then she fitted the key to the latch and I lit a candle and she took me by the hand and led me to the bed.