She’d decided to go to Rosa’s garden as soon as it opened. That should give her time to see everything and still be back at Half Moon House before her own garden was occupied. Although she never ventured amongst the guests, she kept careful watch over things from the roof, and wouldn’t dream of not being physically present on the property whenever her specimens were being viewed.

It was another cold, clear evening, and Beatrice was glad of her winter furs as her driver handed her up into the waiting carriage. They reached Raven Hall shortly after seven o’clock, and there must have been more than a hundred carriages lined up on the drive already. Beatrice recognised many of the families from the crests painted on the doors, and realised some of them had come from miles away.

She was pleased for Rosa but, at the same time, shrank from being forced to mingle with such a large number of people. Nevertheless she climbed down from her carriage and walked with them towards the garden’s wrought-iron entrance gates. They were guarded on each side by a six-foot-tall suit of armour. Each gripped a flaming torch in one gauntleted hand, as if they were guarding the entrance to a dungeon rather than a pleasure garden. The suit on the left held a tangle of pocket watches dangling from their chains, all showing different times, their ticks and tocks out of sync with one another. The suit on the right held, strangely, a silver platter piled high with fans. A card invited people to help themselves.

The female guests were doing so as they walked through the gate, chattering and laughing with their companions. Already the gardens were far noisier than Beatrice’s. She could hear the strains of an orchestra mingled with the excited exclamations of guests. The air smelled of engine oil and bonfire smoke.

During the next lull in the crowd, Beatrice made to walk through the gates, but as she approached a suit of armour, she noticed it wasn’t empty, as she’d assumed. Eyes glittered out at her through the visor, making Beatrice jump.

‘A fan, my lady?’ a muffled voice came through the helmet.

‘In this w-weather?’ Beatrice asked, recovering herself.

The suit of armour held out the platter of fans a little closer to her.

‘Beyond these gates,’ he said, ‘nothing is what it seems.’

‘How m-mysterious.’

Beatrice selected a fan and opened it up to reveal a beautiful red silk design held on ivory sticks and trimmed in cream lace.

‘Thank y-you,’ Beatrice said, before walking through into the garden.