Beatrice nodded. He was right, of course, and she was glad that he had not spoken out of pity – that he thought it was the world that was at fault, rather than her.

Later that day he and Jani left for India and then she was truly alone at Half Moon House.

As the week progressed, it seemed that every night was a triumph for the garden. The staff reported that one or two more guests had had to be removed for breaking the rules, but word seemed to have got round about that; and, once people realised she was completely in earnest, no further rules were broken. Due to the garden’s limited capacity and opening hours, there were not enough tickets for everyone who wanted one as it was, and nobody was prepared to risk squandering their chance to see the winter wonderland about which they’d heard such extraordinary tales.

A week after opening night Beatrice was relaxing in the Winter Smoking Room. It was one of her favourite rooms, with its white marble and the handsome drinking cabinet. Most of all, she adored the stained-glass windows. They depicted a host of seasonal birds, from red-breasted robins and clever nuthatches, to tiny goldcrests and pretty bramblings, gorgeous in their winter plumage.

Beatrice had settled herself in a window seat, with Wilkie at her heels, and passed the hours by turning the creamy pages of one of her sketchbooks, admiring all the many non-magical mushrooms she’d seen over the years. To her, they were just as wonderful as their more spectacular brethren on show in the garden, but she knew people weren’t interested in paying to see these types. So she admired them alone, drinking in the jelly ears and the scarlet elf caps, the blushing wood mushrooms, amethyst deceivers and shaggy parasols. She was just about to ring for tea when a footman entered bearing a silver tray. On it was a small golden box, beautifully wrapped in scarlet ribbons.

‘A messenger brought this, your ladyship,’ the footman said. ‘From Raven Hall.’

Once the servant withdrew, she turned her attention to the parcel in her hands. It was, indeed, from Raven Hall, as evidenced by the tiny black raven painted on the corner of the lid. Beatrice tugged the ribbons free and removed the lid from the box. Inside was a nest of tissue paper, from which glowed a pair of tiny eyes, red as rubies. The next moment a clockwork bird erupted from the box in an explosion of crimson-and-gold sparkles, like a miniature firework. It held a tiny scroll in its beak, which it dropped in Beatrice’s lap before spreading its magnificent wings and flying several times around the room.