The bad-luck stone …

The door opened then, and Margaret Sullivan, the dowager duchess, walked in, carrying a book. She was dressed in an oriental teal-and-green striped gown, her chestnut hair was streaked with steely grey and she possessed a poise that Beatrice could never hope to emulate. When she’d first met the duchess, Beatrice had been struck by the thought that this was the snow queen straight from the pages of one of her childhood books, brought to life in every detail – so perfect, and beautiful, and cruel.

‘Ah, Lady Beatrice,’ Margaret said. ‘Thank you for coming. I know you must have much to do before tomorrow.’

In truth, Beatrice had very little to do except wait. It seemed that all preparations for the wedding had been taken entirely out of her hands. She stood up to take the duchess’s gloved hand. ‘M-M-My p-p-p …’

She flushed deeply as she tried to force out the words. She could speak perfectly well when she was alone, without the slightest stammer. But panic always raced to the surface when faced with other people, and the harder she tried, the more impossible it would become.

‘P-P-Pleasure!’ she managed.

The duchess gazed at her, mouth pinched in an expression of disapproval.

‘I have something for you,’ she said. ‘Do sit down.’

Beatrice reluctantly took her seat on the chaise longue and Margaret sat in the armchair across from her. The door opened again and a maid entered with a tea trolley. She laid a silver tea service out on the table between them, along with plates of dainty, frosted cakes, all dusted in crystals of sugar that looked like little shards of ice – poisoned offerings from a snow queen’s banquet hall.

‘I trust you don’t mind the liberty, Beatrice,’ the duchess said. ‘But since your own dear mother is no longer with us, I thought I would ensure your ownership of this volume myself.’

She handed over the book, which felt heavy in Beatrice’s hands. She rested it on her knees and looked down at the title stamped across the cover: The Wives of England, Their Relative Duties, Domestic Influence & Social Obligations.

‘Take heed of its wisdom and you will enjoy a most satisfactory marriage,’ the duchess went on, picking up a teacup. ‘It is a fine volume. I’ve marked some of the most illuminating passages for you.’

Beatrice opened the book at random to one such page and the words blazed before her eyes:

It is quite possible you may have more talent than your husband, with higher attainments, and you may also have been generally more admired; but this has nothing whatever to do with your position as a woman, which is, and must be, inferior to his as a man …

Beatrice’s fingers itched to tear out the page and stuff it down the duchess’s throat. Instead she closed the book. ‘Th-thank you, your g-grace,’ she said. ‘You are m-most k-k-kind.’