‘Dear Lord . . .’ Mr James intoned as they all sat. Luke folded his hands. ‘Dear Lord, help us to remember our good fortune in our lot and in this food on our plates. For all the tasks that we have to accomplish, lend us Your strength and may our work sharpen our appetites for the feast. Amen.’

‘Amen,’ Luke said. But far from whetting his appetite, there was a coldness in the pit of his belly as he put his fork to his lips. One full moon he had for his task. And he had no idea how to accomplish it.

That night, tossing and turning on the thin pillow, Luke thought he’d never sleep. His head was too full of everything that had happened in the day: trying to play the part of Luke Welling, trying to keep up with his new job, and trying all the while to work out the lay of the land for his mission.

But he did sleep. He must have done, for he woke in the night sweating and crying and with the image of the Black Witch in front of his eyes in the darkness. His hand shook as he reached out and struck a match, the flame wavering high in his trembling fingers.

The wick caught and he sank back, curled on his side, hating himself. He was one of the Brotherhood now, or almost – he’d undergone trial by knife and trial by fire and accepted the trial of the hammer. So why did he still wake night after night, his body drenched with sweat and his face wet with tears?

He lay, staring into the candle flame, trying to quiet his thudding heart and chase away the image of the Black Witch and that white, creeping hand crawling across the floor towards his trembling leg. And as the flame waxed and flickered, red and gold, an image came into his head; a girl, her hair like a halo of fire around her head, glowing like an ember in the dark. He closed his eyes, but the fire burnt against his closed lids, long after he’d shut his eyes.

7

‘Will you be able to ride like that, miss?’ Ellen stood back and looked at Rosa, buttoned into the tight new habit, the black skirt swishing the rug as she paraded in front of the fly-spotted bedroom mirror. The skirts were much longer and heavier than she was accustomed to. Belle followed at her heels as she paced and turned. ‘Your stays are awful tight.’

‘I think so.’ Rosa took an experimental deep breath, feeling the whalebone cutting into her middle, and then let it out. In her head she could hear Alexis’ bitter hissing voice: You look like a scrawny boy, and she despised herself for caring. This was not her – this girl who primped and laced and brushed her hair until it shone. The real her was the girl who rode bareback through the woods at Matchenham, with her skirts pulled up so she could sit astride, and her hair tangled by the wind. But where was that girl now? It was as if London had killed her.

‘You look beautiful, Miss Rosa.’ Ellen spoke as if she could hear Rosa’s thoughts. ‘Mr Knyvet would have to have a heart of stone not to—’

‘Ellen!’ Rosa cut across her, blushing furiously. ‘Mr Knyvet has nothing to do with this.’

‘Yes, miss,’ Ellen said, but the dimples in her cheeks told Rosa she did not believe her.

‘How’s the new stableboy?’ she said curtly, changing the subject. ‘Settling in?’

‘Well!’ Ellen tossed her head and began tidying the brushes on the dressing table crossly. ‘He’s not much of a boy for all that. I think there’s something rather pushing and forward about him, if you ask me.’

‘Really?’ Rosa picked up Belle, nuzzling her warm forehead. ‘He seemed just the opposite when I met him in the stables. Positively tongue-tied.’

She remembered his deep voice, his East End accent, the way his consonants blurred together, like wooden blocks shaken together until the edges wore blunt.

‘Oh he’s quiet, miss, but that’s not what I meant. He’s too quiet. It’s – it’s like he doesn’t care, somehow, but . . .’ Ellen stopped, struggling to put her finger on what she meant, but Rosa thought she knew. He had the quietness not of self-doubt, but of someone holding themselves back, keeping themselves apart. And the reserve in his eyes wasn’t born of inadequacy but of something else, something she couldn’t quite identify. As if . . . the words came to her suddenly, as if someone had whispered them in her ear: as if he were trying to hide the wolf inside.

She shivered suddenly. What nonsense. Just because he was quiet and didn’t tug his forelock and look nervy enough for Ellen. Anyway, it was natural enough for Ellen to dislike him; he’d pushed out her sweetheart, hadn’t he? Usurped his place.

Except . . . except wasn’t he supposed to be Fred’s cousin? So why would Ellen resent someone who was doing Fred a good turn, keeping his place for him until he was well enough to work again?

Never try to understand servants or outwith, Alexis’ dismissive voice spoke inside her head. They’re a law to themselves – as nervy as animals and half the sense.

‘I’d better go down,’ she said to Ellen. ‘I mustn’t keep Alexis waiting. He wants to be in the Row by eleven. Goodbye, Belle darling.’ She dropped a kiss on Belle’s warm twitching back and then set her gently on the window seat. ‘Keep my seat warm. And wish me luck.’

‘You have to admit, Rose, this ain’t half bad,’ Alexis called across the narrow strip of path between them.

Rosa looked down at Cherry’s back and up at the blue sky, bright and sunny for once, all trace of last night’s fog and rain clouds chased away by the winter sun. Only the smoke from London’s thousands of chimneys drifted across the sky, deceptively clean and white against the stark blue.

Then she looked across at Alexis, his top hat gleaming in the morning sun. She hated to agree with Alexis, but he was right. It wasn’t like riding at Matchenham, full gallop across the dew-wet fields, with her hair loose like a gypsy and full of twigs and the smell of damp leaves, but there was something very pleasant about the ordered ranks of riders with their gleaming horses, the men so handsome in their top hats and riding coats, the women in their stocks and habits, hair swept up and shining in the sun. The brass on the carriages glittered like gold, the grass to either side was manicured into a soft green carpet scattered with golden leaves, and she could hear the bells from Brompton Oratory and St James’s floating across on the fresh morning breeze. And even the pinching of her stays and the ache in her cheekbone could not take away from the bubbling delight of being on horseback again, the pommel of the side-saddle firm against her thigh.

Beneath her, Cherry whickered excitedly and Rosa knew that she felt it too.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, putting her hand down to stroke Cherry’s warm neck. ‘I know I’ve neglected you.’

Behind them came Castor’s plodding step and she thought of the stableboy and the look in his eyes as he’d handed her up on to Cherry’s back. The way his gaze had gone to her cheek and stayed there, so that her hand had crept almost unconsciously to cover it.

‘What?’ she’d snapped. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing, miss,’ he’d said, his face impassive, and turned away.

She knew, she knew there could not possibly be a mark there – she’d checked in the glass this morning and the spell had worked. Not even the faintest purple. He could not have known. There was no way he could have known. But still – his eyes and the shadow of a frown between his brows . . .

She shook herself. You’re getting foolish. You’ve been living too long with outwith servants, living with deception.

Luke watched Rosa as she rode, watched her reach down and pet Cherry, whispering something to the horse, and he thought again of the moment he’d handed her up into the saddle. Something about her face had caught his eye, the shadow of something around her cheekbone, almost as if the remains of a spell lingered there, shimmering in the morning sun.

He’d stared like a fool, like the idiot he was – unable to tear his eyes from it – and it was only when her hand had gone nervously to her face and she’d said, ‘What? What is it?’ with a catch in her voice, that he realized he’d frozen, the saddle girth slack in his hand, his eyes fixed on her.

‘Nothing,’ he’d choked out, and carried on tightening Cherry’s girth for her. ‘Nothing, miss.’ Then he’d turned away, trying to hide his disquiet.

It was one thing to imagine himself living among witches, entwined with their magic, at the mercy of any spell – it was quite another to find himself there in reality. He was here – just feet away from them – and they were riding in the Row just like all the other men and women, but reeking of magic so strongly he could not understand how the other riders didn’t flinch away. And not just one witch either, but two – that Judas-haired brother of hers, Alexis. He might be a beef-fed bully with a seat like a sack of potatoes, but he was still a witch. His power shimmered around him like a miasma, though the day was clear.

He, Luke, was outnumbered. Even with the knife in his boot, it was an uncomfortable thought.

He was so wrapped in his thoughts that he almost didn’t notice the third rider coming across and, when Rosa and Alexis reined in, he was caught by surprise. His horse, Castor, stumbled, barging Brimstone’s hind quarter with his shoulder.

‘Damnation!’ Alexis snapped, as Brimstone jumped and sidled beneath him. ‘Can’t you control your horse, you clumsy oaf?’

‘Sorry, sir,’ Luke muttered. He looked over, to see a tall man in immaculately tailored riding clothes reining in a magnificent Arab that gleamed like polished mahogany, the sheen on its burnished coat second only to the polish on the man’s tall leather boots. It would be impertinence to stare, but Luke’s quick glance took in everything from the man’s high top hat to the wicked-looking spurs that glinted at his heels. A little dog ran at his feet, jumping and chasing its own tail for the sheer joy of being alive, a strange contrast to the contained stillness and power of the man on horseback. The whole group, man, horse and dog, were wreathed around and about in spells, bound and twisted in a fog of power so thick that it was almost palpable – Luke barely repressed a shudder as he turned his eyes to the ground.