Rosa had long since grown out of the clothes bought in their prosperity and after Alexis’ new suits and clothes were paid for there had somehow never been enough left to pay for extras for her. She hadn’t minded – there seemed little point in new frocks to wear at Matchenham, with only the horses and Mama to mind whether the hems of her skirts were let out and her pinafores frayed. But now, in the luxurious interior of the carriage she saw, more clearly than ever, the worn patches on her thin, cheap cloak and the stains on her skirt. She whispered a spell under her breath and scrutinized the threadbare material, praying to God that the enchantment would hold, in spite of her tiredness, and that Sebastian would not notice the cheap deception. Most men could be relied upon not to see the small charms of vanity – the smoothing of wrinkles, the patching of a frock, the enchantment of grey hairs. But Sebastian was not most men.

‘How far is the house?’ she whispered to Alexis as the coachman tipped his whip to the horses.

‘Oh, not far. Twenty minutes perhaps. Most of it’s Seb’s drive, to be honest. But you’ve been to Southing before, haven’t you?’

‘I don’t think so.’ She looked out of the window at the unfamiliar cottages and the shapes of the hills. The village houses were built of Sussex flint, like those round Matchenham, so they looked homely, but she was sure she had never seen them before. ‘I was never allowed to come when you went for holidays. Perhaps I came with Mama and Papa when I was very small – but I don’t remember if so.’

‘Huh. Perhaps you’re right.’ He turned up his collar and closed his eyes. ‘Hope the sot has made it all right with the horses. Think he knows which end of a train is which?’

‘Don’t be hateful.’ Rosa turned her face to the window, watching the dark countryside flash past. Rain speckled at the windows and in the far-off distance she heard the scream of the train as it disappeared into the night. ‘Does Sebastian know we’re bringing him?’

‘Well, I don’t suppose he thinks we’ve packed the horses in our trunks,’ Alexis drawled.

‘No, that we’re bringing an . . .’ She lowered her voice, even though the coachman was outside the box and could not possibly hear. ‘An outwith.’

‘He knows. We won’t be the only people with an outwith servant. I don’t suppose the Southing servants will be very pleased, but they’ll be used to it. He’ll be out in the stables anyway, so he won’t interfere with the house servants. Now, shut up, do. I’ve a hell of a headache and your chatter isn’t helping.’

Rosa was about to snap back a retort, but there was a sudden rumble as they passed over a cattle grid and then two huge gateposts and a gatekeeper’s cottage loomed out of the darkness. She pressed her face to the glass, her anger forgotten as she peered into the night.

The drive wound through woods and fields, and she realized that Alexis had not been joking when he said that most of the twenty-minute drive was within the grounds of Southing. She caught glimpses between the trees: tall chimneys, glinting golden lights. But the architect who had built Southing had seated it in the landscape so that you never saw the house itself until the last possible moment – and then suddenly it was there, in one breathtaking sweep, as the carriage rounded the last curve of the drive.

‘Oh . . .’ Rosa breathed. Her breath frosted the glass, making golden halos of the lamps that lit the carriage drive and the tall pillared porch.

A footman stepped forward to open the carriage and she stepped, as if in a dream, into the cold country night, lit by a horned moon, a thousand stars, and the golden light that streamed from the windows of Southing.

‘Miss Greenwood.’

For a minute she couldn’t work out where the voice was coming from, who would be calling her name in this strange place. There was someone coming down the steps, but the light streamed out from the tall doorway, dazzling her eyes. Then she saw. Sebastian.

‘Mr Knyvet.’

He was dressed in evening dress, with a faultless white shirt and tie, and holding a tiny cheroot with a gold-wrapped tip which he threw away as he descended the steps towards her. His head was bare and the lamps shone on his dark-golden hair as he bent over her hand.

‘Miss Greenwood. I am so very, very pleased to welcome you to Southing,’ he said, in his soft, hoarse voice. And he smiled – not his usual sardonic twist of a smile, but a true, wide smile that changed his whole face and made him look more like a boy than a man.

He opened his palm and in his hand was a single rose, made of frost and ice and magic.

‘Se— Mr Knyvet . . .’ Rosa stammered. She looked over her shoulder reflexively, looking for the footman but Sebastian only smiled.

‘Don’t worry, he’s one of us. Take it. I made it for you.’

‘Thank you.’ She took it from his hand. It was perfect – down to every frozen stamen. Even the thorns were sharp enough to prick. She looked down at it, marvelling as it melted, its beauty slipping away through her gloved fingers.

‘Seb!’ There was a squeak of carriage springs and a crunch of gravel as Alexis heaved himself out of the carriage and on to the drive. ‘What ho! Game for a hand of baccarat tonight?’

Rosa looked up and then back down to where the frozen rose had lain. There was nothing left but water.

The elderly white-haired groom was a witch. It was all Luke could think of as he followed in the man’s footsteps, trying desperately to concentrate on everything the man was saying. This stall for Cherry, this for Brimstone, over there was the tack room, but here was where to put the saddles for cleaning. He knew this information was what he’d need to survive – but the man was a witch. Not a very good one – his magic was a fragile will-o’-the-wisp in the night air. But a witch, nonetheless. And it made it impossible to concentrate on what he was saying.

‘Eh, are you listening?’

‘Sorry.’ Luke stumbled. He rubbed his face, feeling his stubble rasp across his palm. He needed a shave and a wash, but most of all a good night’s sleep. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said, now the horses are settled, I’ll show ee to tha room. Where’s tha traps, boy?’

‘My traps?’ Luke echoed stupidly. The old man’s country burr was hard to understand.

‘Tha traps – bags, kit. What do ee call ’em in Lunnon?’

‘Oh.’ Luke shook himself. He’d got so used in London to the servants’ hall being a refuge away from their kind, it was doubly strange to find one of them here, on what felt like safe ground. ‘Sorry. I left ’em in the yard.’

‘Come on then, laddie, pick ’em up, and we’ll get ee settled afore supper. Ye’ll be clemmed, I shouldn’t wonder.’

He stumped off across the yard and Luke followed.

‘When will the hunt start?’

‘Oh, they’ll be hunting tomorrer,’ the old man said. ‘Mr Sebastian was never one to let the grass grow. He’s been cooped up in Lunnon these long months and in India afore that. He’s half mad to get wet pasture under his horse’s hooves agin.’

‘I’ve never been hunting,’ Luke said as he picked up his case. He didn’t try to hide his nerves. No use pretending he wasn’t as green as they came for this – he would take any information this old man could give him, and welcome. ‘Anything I should know for tomorrow?’

‘Well, I seed your master and miss only brought the one ’orse each, so I dare say Mr Sebastian will lend ee one o’ his father’s hacks. Bumblebee most likely. It’ll be your job to get your master and Miss’s ’orses ready on the day. And o’ course you’ve to make sure Miss Greenwood doesn’t go killing of herself.’

Luke nearly dropped his case, cold with horror that the man had reached inside his thoughts so simply, but then the man laughed, a loud raucous belly laugh, and Luke realized it was a joke.

‘Sounds simple enough,’ the old man wheezed, ‘but it’s them young ladies you’ve to keep your eye on, ’specially if she doesn’t know the lie of the land. Make sure now she doesn’t go leaping no treacherous ditches, nor taking no ’edges too high for her. And keep her away from Bishop’s Ford,’ he added, his face suddenly serious. ‘That bridge won’t last the season.’

‘Bishop’s Ford?’ Luke asked. ‘Where’s that?’

‘Old ford to the east; you’ll know it by the wooden bridge and the two oak trees either side. The bridge looks sound enough but there’s a strut gone and it won’t bear an ’orse. I’ve said time and agin they should take it down, but the telegraph boys use it for their round. It’s safe enough on foot, leastways until the winter. But not for an ’orse and rider. If you want to cross on horseback you mun’ go farther upstream, towards Barham. There’s a good bridge there; that’s the one the hunters will take, if they’re heading for Thatcher’s Covert.’

‘I’ll remember,’ Luke said numbly. He hardly noticed as the old man handed him to a maid at the back door, nor as she led him through a warren of subterranean passages and rooms to a back staircase, chattering all the while. As he trudged after her, up the narrow staircase towards the attic room that was to be his for the weekend, there was only one thought in his head, and it sang through him, like metal singing from the clean blows of a hammer: Bishop’s Ford.

It was as William had said: providence had handed him a gift straight from God. Now it was up to him not to waste it.

As she descended the great stairs, the hubbub of voices hit Rosa first, followed by the heat as she entered the drawing room. It was a huge, long room with tall windows, panelled walls and a ceiling frosted and frilled like a wedding cake. The heat came from the fireplaces at each end, great cavernous things banked with giant logs the size of small trees, burning so briskly that the ladies nearby had retreated behind fire screens and fans. Rosa felt her face flush warm in the glow and she thought of how her pink skin must clash with her hair. She tugged at the green dress, wishing it were not so shabby and so tight, wishing the bodice were not so low, wishing it were not the dress Sebastian had seen her wear last time he came. She prayed that he wouldn’t notice. She prayed that if he did, he didn’t realize the truth: that it was almost the only presentable dress she possessed.