She stepped back into the nursery and closed the door in Eustace’s face. He was unlikely to return that night, but she locked it anyway, just in case. As usual, Ada’s cries had woken Esme, and now she had two alert babies on her hands. Wearily she sat in the rocking chair with a daughter in each arm and settled herself to the long task of feeding, cuddling, singing and soothing. That endless cycle, which seemed to have become her entire life. If she was lucky, then one of them might fall asleep, although she had practically given up hope of them both sleeping at the same time. Perhaps she ought not to have dismissed that wet nurse Eustace had employed. Perhaps she ought to accept the help of the nanny. It was just that Rosa no longer trusted anyone but herself to take care of her daughters.

In the end, though, the twins miraculously quietened. Rosa didn’t dare stand up to put them back in their cribs, and fatigue seemed to weigh down her limbs like blocks of lead, so she remained in the rocking chair with them, promising herself she would only stay for a moment. The star from James shone softly inside its glass dome, twinkling over the orchids. For a blessed moment, all was quiet and peaceful and beautiful, and Rosa could breathe, and she could breathe, and she could breathe.

The star filled the room with a silvery glow that dappled, like light shining through water, and Rosa thought she was looking at a flickering shadow at first. Then her focus suddenly sharpened and she realised with a jolt that she and the twins were not alone in the night-nursery. Sitting upon the floor on the other side of the room, playing with one of the tin soldiers, was the boy with the withered arm. The one she had seen in the Long Gallery so many months ago. The one who had first spoken of the Carousel of Icicles.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Rosa felt the shock of adrenaline like an icy slap. How long had the boy been there, quietly playing at her feet? He was partially obscured in shadows and sat sideways-on to her. The tin soldier clicked softly across the wooden boards as the boy marched him across the floor. And the child was humming. It was a tune Rosa recognised – the one from the carousel itself. She glanced at the door but it was still shut, with the key in the lock.

‘How did you get in here?’ she whispered.

‘I live here,’ the boy said, without looking up from his soldier.

‘No, I mean how did you get into the nursery? I locked the door.’