‘Why d-don’t you g-go on?’ Beatrice said, her gaze flicking briefly to Eustace. ‘R-Rosa can c-clean her hand in the h-h-house. And then j-join you.’

‘Very well.’

Beatrice glanced down at the clockwork pieces of the raven and then back at Rosa, ‘W-Would you l-like me to—’

‘Just leave her.’ The words came out as a whisper. ‘She is beyond repair.’

‘At least, my dear, we can take solace from the fact that we have hundreds more of the wretched things at home,’ Eustace said, a glint in his eye. For just a moment she caught a glimpse of the boar beneath and was surprised. Eustace was usually more in control of himself in company. She glanced at Beatrice and could almost sense the other woman’s dislike for her husband coming off her in waves. But she said nothing and the three of them made their way back to the garden’s entrance.

Beatrice told the footman to expect Rosa at the supper booths shortly. Eustace then went with the remaining guests to the plum gate, whilst the other two headed for the house. They walked in through the front entrance hall and Rosa gasped, unable at first to take in what she was seeing. Dark shapes hung from every available surface – the staircase and the doorframes and the chandelier itself. Initially she thought they were bats, but then she realised they were chrysalises.

‘Beatrice!’ she exclaimed. ‘The house! What has happened?’

Beatrice paused. ‘Oh. Y-Yes. The house. It has ch-changed. Since l-last you were h-here.’

She was not wrong. As they moved down the corridors, Rosa glimpsed rooms filled with strange, creeping vines that grew up the walls and hung down from the ceiling. Others had been entirely taken over by trees, whose roots ripped up the floorboards, or hanging moss that grew through the tapestries. The Summer Dining Room had been turned into a grotto filled with the glimmer of glow-worms that winked out of the gloom at them like golden eyes.

Through it all there was the rustle of different types of wings: leathery or soft, paper-thin or feathered. Rosa saw that there were not only birds inside the house, but bats, butterflies, moths and even a couple of pale owls as well. The wooden floor was splattered with their droppings, as were the elegant furniture, the priceless rugs and the antique carriage clocks. Toads, frogs and mice scattered before them like tiny shadows in the sputtering hiss of the gas lamps, and a host of bright, shining eyes seemed to watch from out of the dark. The smell of damp vegetation and animal waste filled the air.

‘But I don’t understand,’ Rosa said. ‘You love Half Moon House. How have you allowed this to happen?’