‘Yes,’ Rosa said. ‘It is true. But, Beatrice, what is going on here? Those trees aren’t yours. Why are they listening to you?’

Beatrice barely heard the question. All that mattered was the carousel in front of her. Suddenly she realised that perhaps it might be all right after all. She did not need the wish. She could use the carousel to put things right. She took a step towards it, her boots crunching over the deep snow, but then Rosa’s voice cried out in a strange, shrill tone she had never heard her use before.

‘Beatrice, you mustn’t! I know you don’t believe me, but you must not! Whatever it is you wish to change, it will lead to your being married to Eustace instead of me.’

Beatrice stopped and tore her eyes from the carousel to look at Rosa. She was vaguely surprised that the child in her arms wasn’t crying, but was staring at the black apple trees with an expression of interest rather than fear. Rosa, however, looked frightened enough for both of them.

‘I wish only to s-say g-goodbye to my m-mother. That would not ch-change my wedding d-day.’

‘Somehow it does,’ Rosa insisted. ‘Perhaps your mother would say something to you during that final conversation that somehow ripples down the years and affects what you do later. We never know what the consequences of each action might be, or how far they will reach.’

The world is a difficult place to be a woman …

Her mother’s words from years ago echoed inside Beatrice’s head now.

Do not allow yourself to be bullied into unhappiness …

She shook her head. ‘Mama w-would approve of h-how I acted.’

Indeed, it had been the memory of her mother that had given her the final push she needed that day, to defy expectation and reject that life. To finally take a stand, to protect her own happiness.

‘He has a withered arm!’ Rosa blurted out.

Beatrice froze as a feeling of dread crept slowly over her. ‘Who?’

‘The boy. Your son. Oh, if you saw yourself married to Eustace in the plum rain, then you must have seen him too! Why didn’t I think of it before? He’s here with us now – I can describe him to you! He’s about eight years old and … and he said that you do not want him. He said that you told him so every day—’

‘Stop!’

The word burst from Beatrice so forcefully that she did not even stutter. She could not bear Rosa to go on. Her head ached as she stared across the snow at her old friend. How could this be? Rosa could not have guessed about the withered arm. She could not have guessed that Beatrice said such wicked things to her little boy – told him every day that she did not want or love him.