Morpheus wades past a trio of men in knee-high boots, then another cluster of young people building walls out of snow. In vain, Agnes searches for Cedric amongst the red-cheeked revellers. He should be out, on a day like this, playing with children his own age. She wishes she had the energy to pull him on a sled or teach him how to skate.

The air smells pleasantly clean. While Simon is lost in thought, she steers him gently in the direction of the Victoria Obelisk. It wears a lace cap. She can almost make out the lions beneath, sprinkled as if with sugar. It gives her a strange satisfaction to see everything in chiaroscuro. She might have painted it herself.

Trudging through the snow is tiring her and the box of marchpane now seems full of rocks, but she is determined to reach Victoria Gardens ere her birthday is done.

Before they come within full view of the Victoria Gate, a sound snaps Simon from his reverie. Morpheus cocks his head and listens alongside his master. A man is calling Simon’s name.

Releasing Agnes’s arm, he turns. A gentleman of perhaps thirty years of age, ill-dressed for the weather, is stumbling towards them. ‘Dr Carfax!’

Two women titter and clear themselves from his haphazard path.

The man sports a thin, dark beard which only serves to show the dreadful pallor of his face.

‘Mr Oswald?’ Simon cries.

He skids to a halt and nearly collapses, but Simon catches him under the elbows.

‘Dr Carfax,’ he pants. ‘Thank heavens I have found you!’

‘Calm yourself, sir. Whatever is the matter?’

‘Mrs Oswald.’

Simon blanches. ‘The child is not … Not already … It is so early …’

‘I pray to God, no!’ The man gasps, trying to catch his breath. ‘But she slipped. She slipped on the ice and she fell.’

‘Where?’

Mr Oswald throws out one arm. ‘Just there, further down the Royal Avenue. I knew I saw you, in the distance. Thank God I did see you! Will you come to her?’

Simon hesitates. Glances at Agnes.

‘Go, go,’ she orders. ‘I shall come to no harm waiting here.’

‘But—’

‘The dog will protect me.’

It is a bold claim to make on behalf of a fat pug, but Simon seems mollified.

‘Please,’ Mr Oswald urges, tugging at his sleeve.

Simon nods and takes off through the snow.

It is blissfully quiet after they have left. Agnes stands for a while, watching the breeze skim a fine layer from the top of the drifts. White specks wheel into shapes that abruptly collapse. If she listens hard enough, she can hear the snow melting in the tops of the evergreens, crackling against the leaves.

It seems the Royal Victoria Gardens are hers, after all.

She walks to the gate and pushes it open. Snow falls from the black iron bars as they swing on their hinges; Morpheus whuffs and grumbles at her feet.