Eventually it landed back on the wooden armrest of Beatrice’s couch and looked up at her, cocking its head expectantly. She couldn’t tear her eyes from it. It was quite the most beautiful creature, with a golden framework, a fiery crest upon its head and brilliant feathers adorned with an array of sparkling rubies and garnets.

‘But what can you be?’ Beatrice wondered, peering down at the bird.

Certainly it was like no creature found in England – the robins and nuthatches in the stained-glass window looked dull in comparison. Yet there was something about it that was familiar, although Beatrice couldn’t think where she might have seen such a creature. She was still racking her brain when suddenly the golden bird spread its wings once again, only this time it didn’t take flight, but froze motionless, as if it were an ordinary ornament.

Beatrice marvelled at the sleek tips of its golden wings, each feather edged in dazzling scarlet. She assumed the clockwork mechanism had wound down, and was about to turn her attention to the scroll when, without warning, the little bird burst into flames. Beatrice cried out and leapt to her feet, stumbling back a few steps.

The flames looked white-hot, with a blazing blue heart, but they lasted only a moment or two before dying out completely. The bird had vanished, leaving a small, smoking egg in its place. Beatrice reached out to grab it, then paused, fearing it might burn her. Very carefully she touched it with the tip of her finger. It was not at all hot; in fact it was cool to the touch. She picked it up and saw that there were no scorch marks left behind on the wooden arm of the sofa. The fire had been a clever illusion.

As she held the egg carefully in her fingers, it cracked, and she could make out the small shape of a clockwork baby bird inside. The next moment it began to wriggle, poking its little beak through the top of the shell and squirming its scruffy body free. Beatrice stared down at the golden chick. It strutted up and down on her palm for a moment, before leaning down towards the shell pieces and gobbling them up as if they were seed.

‘A phoenix,’ Beatrice breathed.

She’d seen the birds depicted in artworks during her time in China and Japan. The mythical creature was said to rise from the ashes of its own destruction in a never-ending loop. So far as she knew, they did not exist anywhere in the world for real.

‘Extraordinary,’ she said, carefully setting the baby bird down on a side table where it continued to wander up and down, taking a few experimental jumps to flutter its tiny wings.

Beatrice felt a glow of admiration for her friend as she finally opened the scroll and an invitation unfolded before her eyes: