‘Please,’ the queen replied, taking a letter from the folds of her dress. ‘Won’t you read it now? Is it not finally time, after all these unhappy years?’

Beatrice glared at the letter. She recognised her own name upon the front, written in her mother’s elegant handwriting, and her whole body trembled with both yearning and dread. It was a letter she had not thought to see again, and now she could not work out whether she wanted it or not. She recalled how the queen had tried to persuade her once before, as a girl, and the request had made her so angry that she had flown into a rage and destroyed things in the garden.

‘The p-plums,’ she said. ‘Rosa s-stole—’

‘The plums don’t matter,’ the queen said. ‘The carousel would have won, either way. In fact I think I prefer it how it was before. It is a fine thing to be able to relive a precious moment from the past, but I don’t believe it does anyone much good to spend time dwelling on old mistakes. If I were you, I’d remove the horse with the golden ribbon from the carousel when you take over the garden.’

Beatrice stared at her. ‘T-Take over?’

‘Why, yes. I just told you. The garden is yours.’

‘That makes no s-sense,’ Beatrice replied. ‘If the garden is m-mine, then the w-wish should have b-been too.’

‘But I already know what you would wish for,’ the Spider Queen said. ‘I felt it when you hurled this letter into the well all those years ago. You regret how things were left with your mother. You fear you hurt her.’

Beatrice felt sudden tears prickle her eyes. How unbearable it was to hear those words said aloud, each one a bell that rang with a dreadful truth. A deep flush crept over her skin and shame made her hot, despite the snow and ice.

‘There were things your mother wanted to say to you,’ the queen said. ‘You would not hear them back then. But you should do so now. You owe it to her.’

The Spider Queen held out the envelope again and, this time, Beatrice took it, holding it awkwardly in her bandaged fingers.

‘The words it contains are private.’ The Spider Queen glanced at Rosa and said, ‘Perhaps I could give you and your daughter a tour, Miss Warren? The garden’s magic will be gone soon, and I should like to show it to someone one final time.’

Beatrice wanted to ask how the magic could possibly be running out, but her tongue was a lump of lead in her mouth and her priority was the envelope in her hand. Her name curled across it in her mother’s familiar handwriting. The sight was so arresting to Beatrice that she barely registered the Spider Queen leaving the garden with Rosa and Ada.