‘And the colour suits your tan. Turn around, give a twirl,’ Fanny said bossily, pushing her around on the spot.

Effie twirled.

Fanny said nothing, but the look in her eyes suggested she was somehow impressed. Effie’s fingers skimmed the fabric in amazement. The gown was a feat of dressmaking brilliance, somehow going in and out exactly where she did. She had never worn clothes that fit before; they were always either too big or too short, patched or itchy . . . How could she wear something like this? It was far too fine for her. It belonged to a girl with a house full of music and beautiful books, not—

A memory stirred, reminding her of the night she had stolen down to the featherstore – Sholto swimming in the moonlight, the precious book on her lap. She could almost see her own pale face at the window, wholly unaware she was already in the slipstream of two conflicting futures that would collide just a few nights later . . . How much had changed since then? How much had happened?

Another image presented itself – frenzied, desperate – and she gave a shudder that made Fanny startle.

‘It suits you. Don’t look so worried.’ Fanny walked her over to the writing table, sitting her down in the chair.

Effie tried to meet the eyes of the young woman staring back at her in the mirror, a young woman dressed in a Paris-made gown who had left a man to die. It had been forty-eight hours since she’d heard he was still missing – and she had done nothing. He’d been alone there now for ten days and in spite of her anguish upon learning the boats hadn’t sailed, she had nonetheless made a choice and remained silent: she’d chosen her life over his. And yet the reflection in the glass showed a lady, not a monster. Could there really be no visible trace of the darkness of her soul?

‘We need to decide what to do with your hair. The style is for finger waves, but your hair is so long, we’d be here all night,’ Fanny murmured, putting her hands through Effie’s hair and feeling the weight and texture. ‘I can’t do all the fancy things Miss Barra does, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let her Royal Brightness steal your thunder in that dress.’

Effie couldn’t imagine stealing anything from Sibyl Wainwright – her thunder, her lover . . . ‘Do you call her that because she’s part of that group?’ she asked.

‘Of course. They’re notorious.’ Fanny pulled her hair back. ‘Even you must have heard of them?’

‘Not before this morning.’

Fanny pulled a face. ‘Were you living on a rock – or under it?’ she grinned. ‘How did you hear?’

‘Billy enlightened me.’