Simon scrubs a hand over his chin. ‘Well,’ he says slowly. ‘What if it were? What would that mean?’

She flicks a glance around the crowded tables. She must try to comport herself with more dignity; already an elderly lady is peering at them through her pince-nez.

She takes a sip of ginger tea, which lights a flame in the back of her throat. ‘It would mean, Simon, that my sitters are dying. That may be a given in your profession, but it is rare in mine. What if people find out this death also had a connection to my business? The customers … And that dreadful Sergeant Redmayne would come back, upsetting me.’

Simon draws his lips together, pats her hand awkwardly across the table. ‘Do not fret. I would never allow that upstart to hurt you. And let us consider. You say this man was just a study you took? In the gardens? Then no one will ever know. He will have no appointment scheduled, nothing that links him to you.’

This is true, but she is not appeased.

‘All the same, it makes me uneasy. I should like to know for sure whether it was the same officer. I know it sounds superstitious and dreadfully silly, but I shall be frightened to cut another shade in case the sitter is … hurt … again.’

A pause. Steam hisses.

‘You could not … retire from cutting silhouettes?’ he suggests gently.

‘We would starve!’

‘I would never allow that to happen. Do you need more assistance? You have only to ask. Let me extend my surgery, shoulder more of the load. Given our relationship, it would not be improper …’

Her eyes begin to sting. When all else in life has been taken from her, does Simon really think she will surrender the one occupation that was ever truly hers? Her studio is the last room in the house where she feels herself; the only one that does not require Cedric’s presence to enliven it. She will not relinquish her last means of independent joy.

Simon seems on the point of saying more, but Agnes pulls back in her chair.

‘Use your money to help Cedric establish himself, Simon. That is all I ask of you.’

He hangs his head. Deep down, she thinks she knows what he was going to say next.

He has been not saying it these ten years at least.

‘Thank you for the tea.’ She pushes the plate away. ‘I do not think I can manage the tart. I seem to have lost my appetite.’

Morpheus swoops in and gobbles it up.

Fresh snow has fallen outside. She is tempted to accept Simon’s offer of a sedan chair home simply to avoid the awkwardness of walking by his side. But when it comes down to it, the enclosure and its movement are too similar to that of a carriage. Any social discomfort is preferable to being reminded of the Accident.