‘Yes. You’re Luke Welling, Fred Welling’s cousin. You live in Spitalfields, son to a drayman. We thought it best to keep it as close to the truth as possible, less chance of a slip that way. They know you’ve got no experience as a groom, but the story is that you know your way around horses and you’re prepared to fill in for your cousin for no pay for a month, while his arm heals.’

‘No pay?’ Luke felt his lip twist. ‘So they’ve laid their own groom off and they’d rather have an untrained lad for free than pay someone who knows his business?’

‘Apparently, yes,’ William said drily. ‘You come with Fred’s recommendation, don’t forget. He’s told them what we said to pass on – that you’re wanting a position as a groom and hope to get some experience and a good reference from this, and that’s pay enough.’

‘They must be soft. For all they know I’ll steal the silver and leave their horses lame and full of foot-rot.’

‘God willing, you’ll leave them with worse than that. But this is not going to be easy, Luke. I can’t pretend it is. You’ll have to be very, very sharp. It must be quick and clean, no way for them to fight back. Understood?’

‘Understood,’ Luke said. He returned to the bellows, watching as the forge roared louder, and the metal in its heart grew white and hot. And the thought came to him, that he was like that metal, about to be plunged into a fire hotter and more savage than any in nature, one that would test and temper him beyond anything he’d known.

They were waiting for him in the kitchen as he came down the stairs the next day, bag in hand, muffler pulled high.

‘Luke, lad!’ John Leadingham clapped him on the back, a buffet that made Luke stagger and grin.

‘Watch out! You’ll have me over.’

‘It’d take more than that to knock you down, young Luke. I’ve seen brick outhouses built less sturdy than you.’ John Leadingham’s face wrinkled in a grin that made him look like a boy and Luke found himself grinning back, in spite of the nerves that griped at his guts. So. This was it. The beginning.

‘Got the tools of the trade?’ John asked intently. Luke nodded.

‘Wrapped in paper under me clothes.’

‘Good luck, boy,’ Benjamin West said. He pushed his glasses up his nose, peering short-sightedly at Luke through the misty lenses. ‘Take care of yeself.’

‘Luke . . .’ was all William said. He shook his head, as if the words were there, but stuck in his throat. ‘Luke.’

‘Goodbye, Uncle.’

‘You take care, hear me?’ He gripped Luke’s shoulders, looking at him, his grip so hard it was all Luke could do not to wince away from it. ‘Hear me?’

‘I hear you. I’ll take care of myself, I promise. I’ll be back within the full moon.’

‘And don’t underestimate her. She may look like just a girl, but she’s not just a girl, remember?’

‘I’ll remember.’

Of course he’d remember. How could he forget?

He looked around the little room, at the faces of the men he’d known all his life, good men, with hands and faces marked by hard work and hard lives, hands that’d sliced meat and hammered metal and carved wood, but hands too that had curved around a tankard in the warmth of an inn, held a woman, dandled a baby and wiped away tears. And hands that had killed a witch – each of them, every man in the room. Suddenly he wanted, desperately, to ask how it had been for them – was the witch old or young, man or woman? Had the witch begged, at the last, or wept? Had their heart misgiven them as they drove the blow home, or did their hand never falter?

But it was the one question he could never ask, never discuss. It was the rule: outside the masked anonymity of the meetings, all hands were clean of blood. And he was not a Brother yet.

He turned to go.

‘Wait.’ William put out a hand to stop him and he paused. His uncle dug in his pocket and pulled out two gold sovereigns. He held them out to Luke. ‘Take these.’

‘No!’ Luke was shocked. ‘No, I can’t. I don’t need it.’

‘Take them.’ His uncle pressed the coins into his limp hand and Luke stood, feeling the dense weight of gold in his palm, growing warm against his skin. ‘I’d rather you had money if you need it. There’s not much I can do to help, but this I can do. Apart from that, you’re on your own, lad.’

Luke nodded and pocketed the coins reluctantly, feeling the truth of his uncle’s words sink into his skin and bone. Apart from that, you’re on your own.

He had never felt so alone.

Then he turned and walked into the rain.

‘Who’re you?’ The man looking down at Luke was no taller than him, but he stood at the top of the flight of stone steps and Luke was at the bottom. Luke had the feeling that even if they’d been on level ground, something about his mud-spattered boots and rain-soaked coat would have left him at a disadvantage. The rain had stopped, but only a few minutes before, and his hair still dripped down his nose and the back of his neck. He looked up at the tall, white house towering above him, at the huge black door with its brass knocker, and then storey after storey of long windows glittering with raindrops.

‘I’m Luke L—’ he stumbled, and bit his lip. Dammit. The very first thing to come from his lips, and he’d nearly slipped up already. ‘Luke Welling. Fred Welling’s cousin. I’ve come to look after the horses.’

‘Hmm.’ The man at the top of the steps looked down his nose. ‘I’m Mr James, the butler. You’ll be reporting to me.’

Luke said nothing, but nodded, and shifted his heavy carpet-bag from one hand to another. It felt like it had absorbed several pints of rainwater on the walk across London.

It had been a long walk, from Spitalfields to Knightsbridge, through the City, along Fleet Street, buzzing with newspaper men, a cut through Covent Garden, full of the debris of the morning market, and then Piccadilly, flash as you like, full of swells and nobs admiring the windows full of fancy fabric and furniture, books and hats – anything you could think of, London could sell you, from gutter pickings to the finest French wines.

And then, at last, Knightsbridge, tucked beneath the green jewel of Hyde Park, a great white oasis of pristine houses so tall and fine, and so different from the grey, crumbling, sooty slums of Spitalfields that he could hardly bear to look at them. Even the rain had stopped as he came into Osborne Crescent, as if this part of London even had different skies.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ Mr James snorted. ‘What kind of manners did they teach you in Spitalfields? “Yes, Mr James”, is what you’ll reply when you’re told something.’

‘Yes, Mr James.’

‘You’ll sleep over the stable at the back of the house and take your meals in the kitchen. You go round by the mews, horses or not. Do not under any circumstances use the front door – it’s the back entrance only for you, understood? Muddy boots get left at the kitchen door, and you’ll be expected to wash at the pump before you come in from the yard. Mrs Ramsbottom won’t take kindly to horse muck being traipsed over her clean tiles. Dinner is in one hour.’

Luke nodded and then, recollecting himself, said ‘Yes, Mr James.’ He eased the carpet-bag back into his other hand, wishing he could set it down, but something told him putting his wet bag on the whitewashed steps would be badly received.

Mr James nodded stiffly, then he looked Luke up and down, taking in his rain-soaked boots and clothes.

‘You walked from Spitalfields?’

‘Yes. I mean, yes, Mr James.’

‘Hmph.’ He seemed to soften slightly. ‘Well, you’ll be glad of dinner, I dare say. I’ll call Becky to show you to your quarters.’

‘There’s no gas to the stable block.’ Becky’s voice floated ahead as Luke trudged wearily after her and up the stairs above the stable and carriage house. ‘So it’s candles. And you’ve not to waste them. Mrs Ramsbottom will count ’em, and if you go over more than what’s reasonable she’ll tell Mr James to dock it from your wages.’

‘What’s reasonable?’ Luke asked.

Becky shrugged.

‘That depends. She had a soft spot for Fred. He got away with murder.’

She’d have a hard time docking his wages anyway, Luke reflected, as Becky opened the door to the little room above the stable block. It was small and low ceilinged, barely more than a whitewashed attic, but it looked clean.

‘The servants’ lavvy is by the back door. You’ll have to wash at the pump in the yard, but Fred used to beg Mrs Ramsbottom for a can of hot water in winter. Pick your moment though. The bed’s clean; I changed the sheets myself. I can’t speak for the rest – he wasn’t exactly a model housekeeper, your cousin.’

‘Thanks.’ Luke let his carpet-bag slip to the floor with a squelching thud. Becky looked at him appraisingly from under her lashes as he peeled off his coat, taking him in from his travel-stained boots to his rain-drenched hair. His shirt was so wet it was plastered to his chest.

‘Your afternoon off’s Wednesday.’ She twined a curl of sandy hair around her finger, where it had escaped from beneath her cap. ‘Same as mine.’

‘Right.’ Luke turned to peer out of the narrow sooty window, across the smoke-stained chimney stacks of the stable mews.

‘What’s happened to your shoulder?’ Becky asked curiously from behind him. Luke glanced reflexively and then bit his lip. The dressing stood out clear beneath the wet material.

‘None of your business,’ he said curtly.

‘Well!’ Becky gave a little huff of annoyance. ‘Some’d say a civil question deserves a civil answer. Dinner’s in three-quarters of an hour. Don’t be late.’ And with that, she turned on her heel, her apron strings fluttering as she stalked down the stairs.