Agnes glances from the drawing to Ned and back again. It hardly does him justice.

‘Remarkable accuracy,’ he enthuses. ‘Just from a rod! The things they invent. So you’ll make it bigger and then it’s done?’

She can imagine him presenting this paltry shade to his grandmother with aplomb, singing the praises of the blasted physiognotrace. See, Grandmamma, you don’t even need a person to draw these now! Is she really going to let a machine best her?

‘The head is too wide and flat,’ she decrees. ‘It needs an artist’s touch.’

Taking a piece of black foolscap, she makes a single vertical incision and begins to cut Ned’s profile as a hole in the centre of it. A hollow-cut – she has not used the technique in years.

For a moment she worries she has outstretched herself. The twists and turns of his face are tight. Slivers of paper peel away as she works on the detail of his cravat, her tongue clamped between her teeth in concentration.

But at last it emerges. Stunning. Her best piece in a long time.

She mounts it on white stock card. A shade reversed. Ned’s profile is a light in the darkness, glowing with the purity of fresh snow.

‘Do you call that soulless, Ned?’

He snatches it up, delight written all over his face. ‘Why, that’s remarkable! You did it in white, just for me?’

She glows with pride. ‘Now you can cut a figure on your grandmother’s wall. It is enough like the others to fit in her collection, but you have your own flair.’

He shakes her hand. Does not notice that she retains his a little longer than necessary.

‘I’m so pleased,’ Ned rattles on as he gathers his coat. ‘I hadn’t planned to do this today. I was just passing and saw your display. Isn’t it lucky I knocked?’

So he has not seen the Gazette.

‘It is very fortunate for me.’

Coins exchange hands. Although she is glad of the money, she is sorry they must part. Soon the shilling will be spent and she will have precious little to remember him by, this sunny boy who has brightened her day.

He is too young for her, of course, but there is something about him that reminds her of Montague. That easy manner, the ability to make her smile.

‘Good day,’ says Ned.

‘I hope we will see you here again.’

He grins but does not reply.

It was a silly thing for her to say. Ned has no reason to come back to this forlorn house: he is young and free. But there is comfort in the thought that she will go with him. Her name, signed in pencil, will never part from his profile.

In some small way, she has claimed him.

CHAPTER 6