“I’ll come right down,” says Bram, immediately conscious he has nothing to contribute to the meal. This is the first time he has been invited to dine with the family. Indeed, it is the first time he has been aware of them having a meal. For the most part the children seem to graze, or dash past nibbling some bread or fruit. How the adults sustain themselves he isn’t sure. He has bought some cheese and bread which he keeps in his room, along with a few tins of this and that, though mostly he has so far not felt troubled to eat much. It has been too hot, and he has been too busy settling into his studio to bother. Quantities of tea and some shortbread have kept him going. At least there is no requirement for him to dress for dinner.

Downstairs there is a sense of happy family muddle, children and adults all squeezed around the kitchen table, dog wagging and barking for tidbits, Jane ladling a carrot-heavy stew into an assortment of bowls.

“Twins,” Jane pauses in her dishing-out, “put George in the garden, do. He’s making such a frightful racket.”

As the small boys drag the dog out one turns to Bram to explain, “We named him after the king!”

Gudrun shrugs and puts in, “Mangan enjoys giving orders to a monarch.”

“Join us, Bram from Yorkshire!” Mangan beckons to him. “Do not linger upon the threshold or the hungry hordes will devour your meal.”

“There is a little meat in the stew,” Jane assures him, “though I’m afraid it is very much brother-where-art-thou, rather than brother-don’t-push.”

Bram takes his place on a wobbly stool next to Freedom.

How curiously they live. All these mouths to feed, and so little to feed them with. And yet they take me in, an additional burden. I must prove myself different. I must make my way, under the guidance of this strange man, and repay them for their kindness. For their faith in me.

*   *   *

The heat of the day has not yet penetrated the thick walls of Number One Fitzroy Square, so the temperature in the morning room is pleasant enough. I sit with Mama after breakfast attempting to encourage her to arrange activities beyond the house, but she is resistant even to the idea of a walk in Regent’s Park. I try to tempt her with the idea of the rose gardens, but she says it is too late for roses, and she does not wish to see them faded and dying. Since the duke’s funeral she has become increasingly listless, and I fear for her health. I wish my skills as a witch extended to some manner of healing that might ease her suffering, but the fact is, there is no magic in the world that can banish the pain of grieving.

Withers knocks and opens the door.

“Viscount Harcourt has arrived, my lady,” he informs Mama.