First of all, there was the basket. It itched beneath her, and even though Rupert had been careful to buy thornless roses, the flowers had still conspired to find ways to poke into her at awkward angles. The smell was overwhelming. And staying so very still for so very long was giving her bad pins and needles in her left leg.

Then there was all the being-picked-up-and-put-down-again. She was put down on the doorstep, while Rupert rang the bell. Picked up and put down again into the hallway. Bumpitty-bump, and the second time, rose petals bumped ticklishly into her nose.

And after that, there was the sound of dogs close by, panting and drooling. Max was wearing her rose-perfume-soaked dress, but she wasn’t one hundred per cent certain that that was going to work. One of the dogs whined uncertainly, not sure what to make of this mostly-roses smell. But although they were puzzled, it was enough to keep them calm: she smelled more of roses than of anything else.

The door shut. Suzanne’s footsteps retreated, and Max was left in the hallway. She counted to thirty, then sat up, showering roses, and clambered out of the basket into Great-Aunt Elodie’s hall.

If anything, things got more uncomfortable from there. Now she was exposed, and that made her feel more hot and prickly and anxious than a thousand roses. She wriggled out of the rose-scented clothes and buried them in the basket, revealing a black-and-white maid’s outfit made from Sister Marguerite’s pyjama-habit – not a real disguise, but enough to let her whisk out of sight round a corner without raising alarm, if necessary.

She scanned the hall for somewhere to hide, heart thudding. The hall made her feel even more exposed. It was huge and white, with a high ceiling and enormous windows looking out to the Bosphorus Strait. There were splashes of colour: huge bouquets of flowers, and gilt cages holding jewelled figurines of birds, and tall glass vases, and tapestries in sumptuous thread. But mostly it was white, and Max felt like a stain in her maid’s black.

Her investigations found that one of the tapestries hung in front of a slight recess, so that she could hide behind it without making a bulge in the fabric – if she was very still. She wriggled in.

The telephone rang.

The butler arrived and answered, in a voice that expressed how permanently raised his eyebrows were; he tap-tapped off; the soft rustle of Great-Aunt Elodie entered the hall.

“Yes?”

A pause; some anxious murmuring from the phone. Even through the phone, the voice was painfully familiar, and seemed to Max as if it came from another world.

“Yes, there’s been a little spot of bother,” Great-Aunt Elodie tinkled. “It seems that poor Maximilienne was caught up in some madcap scheme of that nun’s. But you mustn’t worry yourself, my dear, I’m taking care of the situation.”

Another pause; more murmuring.