There was a sudden icy gust of air, and the last of the corridor was driven away. Raven Hall dissolved back into the nightmare it had come from, and Beatrice was in the garden laboratory once more.

I’m so sorry, she had wanted to say to Rosa when she got into her carriage earlier. I know what your life is like, and I’m so, so sorry.

Beatrice was culpable. She felt that in her bones. If she had married Eustace like she was supposed to, then Rosa would be in some other life right now. Beatrice thought it strange, and sad, and a little scary, how every tiny thing one person did – every single choice and act – could ripple out to have an impact on the people around them. And you could never quite know how many people you affected, or in what ways, or how your life might have touched theirs for the worse.

Her heart ached for her friend. Becoming trapped in an unhappy marriage was one of the most desperate and dreadful lots that could befall a woman, precisely because there was no escape, no magical key that would lead to a way out. She wished with all her heart that she had not seen that other life in the plum rain; that she had not seen what kind of a man Eustace was, or the rottenness within Raven Hall. She had always disliked the house. Now she was more convinced than ever that there was something wrong with those old stones. Perhaps it was simply that it had seen so much misery over the years. Either way, Beatrice did not think it possible for anyone to be truly happy there any more.

She turned away from the forest of plum trees now and returned to Half Moon House. As always, she went straight to the painting of the tiger that James had given her. Only it was not a painting of a tiger any more, but a girl alone, gazing across the snow at nothing. The tiger had left the frame months ago.

After Rosa’s visit, Beatrice had kept a close eye on the painting. And on several different occasions she had seen the tiger move. It was never by much. His head would be at a slightly different angle, or one great paw would be an inch to the left, or a whisker would catch the moonlight in a slightly different way.

‘It looks the same to me,’ James had said, when she mentioned it to him.

‘He has moved,’ Beatrice insisted.

The orchid hunter looked doubtful, but she knew it was true and did not require anyone else to confirm it to her.