She didn’t set the alarm clock for two-thirty, afraid that, however quickly she silenced its rattle, someone would hear it and be roused from sleep. But she didn’t need an alarm. For years she had been able to wake by act of will, just as she could feign sleep so convincingly that her breathing became shallow and she herself hardly knew whether she was awake or asleep. Two-thirty was a good time. Midnight was the witching hour, the potent hour of mystery and secret ceremony. But the world no longer slept at midnight. If Mr. Chandler-Powell was restless, he might well walk into the night at twelve, but he wouldn’t be abroad at two-thirty, nor would the earliest risers. Mary Keyte’s burning had been at three in the afternoon on 20 December, but the afternoon wasn’t possible for her act of vicarious expiation, the final ceremony of identification which would silence Mary Keyte’s troubled voice for ever and give her peace. Three o’clock in the morning would have to do. And Mary Keyte would understand. What was important was to pay this final tribute, to re-enact as closely as she dared those appalling final minutes. The twentieth of December was both the right day and perhaps her last chance. It might well be that Mrs. Rayner would call for her tomorrow. She was ready to go, tired of being ordered about as if she were the least important person at the Manor when, if they knew, she was the most powerful. But soon all servitude would be over. She would be rich and people would be paid to look after her. But first there was this final goodbye to be said, the last time she would speak to Mary Keyte.