“Is he going to be OK?” I felt my heart race. I had seen the way the van had struck him down. Claude had been right in the path of the vehicle. I kept seeing him in that moment when he charged forward at a gallop, the terror in his eyes and that look on Oscar’s face too as he realised what they both had to do. There had not been a split second of hesitation from either of them – they were there to protect the public and they did their job. And now … who knew? I felt sick with worry for them both.

“They won’t say anything about what is wrong, but they admit that Claude is critical,” Nicole continued. “Leave the vets to do their work, Maisie. I promise you, if there’s no more news by morning, we’ll go down there and force our way in to see him if we have to, OK?”

So I went to my room and pulled out my sketch book and looked at my drawings of Claude. Oh, but he was such a handsome horse! And then as I flicked through the stack, my eyes took on a fresh perspective, and for the first time I could see the truth – there was something missing in my pictures. I had this sickening feeling as I scanned the sketches. Augustin had been right all along about my work. I was holding something back in my heart, not truly expressing myself. These old drawings that he had so disliked, I could see their fatal flaw now too. They lacked emotion; they had no soul.

I curled up on my bed, still shaking a little from the day’s events. I looked at the clock. It was still only 4 p.m.! How could the world have changed so much, so fast? My mind was racing, and in an effort to drown out the fear that haunted me, I turned to Rose’s diary once more. I opened the page to where I had left it last time and began to read.

February 10, 1853

I have been cooped up for eight days in the carriage journeying to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. Eight days with nothing to do! Yes, I tried to draw. But the roads were too bumpy, and I couldn’t keep the pencil steady. And I tried to read a book, but I felt sick, so instead I just stared out of the windows at the countryside. France, it turns out, is full of trees.