Finally they reached the little ice house, where the two china rabbits sat patiently, ears tall and straight and expectant, as if they were waiting for them. One was a creamy ivory with violet forget-me-nots entwined along its side and up one of its ears. The other was a glossy midnight-blue, the colour of frozen ice on a deep, dark lake. As soon as Rosa and Eustace emerged from the trees, the rabbits hopped right up to them.

The moment Eustace’s fingers brushed the dark one, it transformed into a handsome teacup upon the path. He snatched it up and gave a self-satisfied smirk at the sight of his own name painted upon the bottom. The other rabbit stretched up on its back haunches, gazing at Rosa expectantly. She reached down and it became a teacup, as before, the bone china smooth and cold beneath her fingers. It was a shame that Eustace had to be there, but Rosa was pleased that she would get to see the supper booths even so. She must get to the bottom of whatever Beatrice was doing, for Eustace had been correct when he said that people were beginning to speak of Beatrice’s garden as being better than hers.

As they continued to explore the grounds in the time remaining, Rosa noticed evidence of fairy life almost everywhere she looked. There were little doors in the trees, hung with tiny wreaths made from green holly and red berries. A mistletoe swing, too small for any human, was suspended from a branch. And a miniature pair of snow boots was tucked, almost hidden, within the crooked roots of a snow-capped pine.

Rosa had never seen a real fairy, and wondered whether these extra touches could have been added by Beatrice merely to give the impression there were fairies in the garden. It did not seem her style, though. Her garden was not about illusion. And Rosa had already heard the fairy music through the golden mushrooms.

Eustace did not appear to notice anything, and Rosa didn’t bother to point these things out. But she looked for them herself, following them as best she could, and this took them once more to the edges of a dark walk. Whilst all the garden was softly lit, this path had no candles at all. It disappeared into a little grove of black apple trees and the only light came from a collection of large snails. They glowed a pale powdery blue, the colour of mountain snow and half-remembered dreams. Rosa recalled what James had said about his wife and realised these must be her snails.