Morbid.

How could it be morbid to want to remember your father?

She held the locket in her palm, looking at the heavy silver scrolling, shiny where it rubbed against her skin and dark in the cracks between. The brass was showing through around the edges, where the plate had worn thin. Papa had given it to her on her tenth birthday and she remembered how sophisticated she had felt – her very own jewellery! Now she saw the cheapness of the thin plate and the old-fashioned moulding. But it didn’t matter.

Gently she put her nail to the catch and prised it open. Papa looked out at her, his dark eyes twinkling above his long, dark beard. It was only a pencil sketch. She’d done it one wet afternoon in front of the fire. Alexis had said it made Papa look like Charles Dickens crossed with a potato, but Papa had praised it. To the very life, Rosa! You’ll be an artist some day.

Rosa shut her eyes, remembering the softness of his beard, the feeling of being hugged against his silk waistcoat, the sound of his laugh.

She sighed and clicked the locket shut.

The crumpled paper lay at her feet and she stood and picked it up, smoothing it out with her palm.

‘Gestrice, léaf,’ she whispered. The paper shivered as if a breeze had passed through the room, and where her palm had passed the page was smooth and whole again. Even the hole she’d torn had knitted back together, but as she looked closer she could see it was not quite perfect. There was a faint scar, like a healed wound; a sort of watermark made by her anger. Nothing would get that out. The drawing was spoilt – like everything Alexis touched.

Rosa opened her wardrobe and began to look through her dresses again.

‘You look charming, Rosa.’ Alexis’ smile showed his teeth. ‘Quite charming.’

Rosa’s stays cut into her waist cruelly, so cruelly she could hardly sit, but, remembering Alexis’ threat about bread and dripping, she smiled back, trying to ignore the pain. Ellen had put her hair up and in the mirror above the fire she saw the long white line of her throat, made whiter still by the dark-red curls behind her ears and at the nape of her neck. The neckline of the green dress plunged far lower than she liked and she fought the urge to tug nervously at the bodice.

She had not taken off the locket though – one thing at least Alex couldn’t dictate. It lay cold and heavy, just below her collarbone and she shivered; she wasn’t used to the chill air on her shoulders and throat. Alexis had moved to look out of the window, and she put out a hand towards the fire, whispering a spell under her breath so that the flames blazed up, licking hungrily at the blackened firedogs.

‘Rosa!’ Mama’s voice rang out like a shot and Rosa jumped guiltily. She turned to see her mother standing in the doorway, her black eyes snapping fire and brimstone. Even the plum-coloured silk of her skirts seemed to crackle.

‘What, Mama?’

‘Don’t say “what”, it’s horribly vulgar. And you know perfectly well what I mean, Rosamund.’

‘But it’s so cold in here!’

‘Nonsense, it’s barely November.’ Mama flickered a glance over her shoulder and lowered her voice. ‘What if the servants had seen?’

‘If we had proper servants . . .’ Alexis said. Mama thinned her lips.

‘If your father hadn’t left us knee-deep in debt then perhaps we might. As it is, we’re fortunate to have a roof over our head and any servants at all. Now, let me straighten your tie, Alexis darling, and, Rosa, any more foolishness from you and you will be eating in the kitchen with the servants. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Mama,’ Rosa muttered.

It was so stupid anyway, she reflected as she pushed past Alexis to the window, to peer into the foggy darkness of the street. She was certain the servants knew what kind of people they worked for – even if they didn’t care to put a name to it. Witches. Sorcerers. Demons, some called them. And Mama was hardly one to talk. Ellen would have to be blind not to notice that rents and tears in her best frock disappeared overnight. And did she truly think that anyone would believe dye had transformed her old canary-yellow hat into that ravishing plum-coloured one?

But no. Mama might transform her wardrobe and charm away the lines on her face, and Alexis might seduce Becky the parlour maid with whispered love spells, and heal his lame horse with a poultice of who-knew-what. But she, Rosa, must not even let the fire flare a little higher for fear of watching eyes.

It hadn’t always been so. Before Papa’s death they’d had servants like them, proper servants as Alexis called them. And there had been no need to hide. Rosa had watched enchanted as Papa made her dolls waltz across the nursery carpet and Alexis’ toy soldiers marched into battle down the landing runner with their guns puffing smoke. If the bath water turned cold then Rosa’s nanny muttered a few words and steam rose up again and she could play with her ducks and boats an hour longer. And when she fell and bumped her knee, a charm was all it took for the pain to lessen and the skin to heal to a silver scar.

But then two years ago Papa had died and the money had vanished, as insubstantial as a dinner magicked from air.

The problem was, magical servants, being what they were, cost money. Money that they did not have, and which the law forbade them to forge. One by one the servants had begun to leave, and two-a-penny outwith replacements had come to take on the work until at last, unwilling to work in a house where even the simplest charm was a danger, they had all left, even Papa’s valet, even Rosa’s nanny. Now all the servants were outwith. And they were prisoners in their own home.

Rosa stared out into the thick, pressing fog and the darkness, seeing nothing but her own pale face reflected in the glass, white against the gloomy red wallpaper of the room behind. It was only when she heard the clip-clop of horse’s hooves that she shook herself, and peered into the murk. A hansom cab drew up beneath the feeble gas-light, and a tall, top-hatted figure alighted. It was a man and he was smoking a tiny thin cheroot – she saw the glowing red ember of its tip and the swirl of smoke against the lamp as he took a last draught of smoke and ground it beneath his heel.

He looked up at the window for a moment and then swept off his hat to make a low, oddly ironic bow towards Rosa’s silhouette in the frame. Then he straightened, set his hat on his head, and climbed the steps towards the front door. Rosa stood in the window, her cheeks burning. Sebastian. And she knew what he’d thought – the meaning of that ostentatiously elaborate bow. He had seen her watching and thought she was watching for him. Her hand was steady as she pulled the curtain shut. Thank God no one could hear the thudding of her heart.

‘Mrs Greenwood.’ Sebastian bent low over Mama’s soft white hand, and Mama blushed and dimpled.

He’d already greeted Alexis at the door, her brother muttering something under his breath that set Sebastian’s mouth twitching and made Alexis himself give a smothered guffaw.

Rosa stood with her back to them both, staring out of the window, feeling her spine grow stiff and straight with tension.

Then she heard a sound behind her and Sebastian’s shadow fell across her shoulder on to the window pane.

‘Miss Greenwood,’ he said, and then, very low, very amused, ‘or, if I might – Rosa?’

His voice sent a shiver through her. It was deeper than she remembered, but she would have known it anywhere. Even as a boy it had been low and slightly hoarse, like the voice of an older man coming from a boy’s lips. Now it was soft yet rough, like velvet. Rosa swallowed. Then she turned and looked him straight in the eye. ‘Mr Knyvet.’

‘I hope I find you well?’ His gaze was direct, unflinching. There was something uncomfortable in it. It was Rosa who looked away first.

‘Quite well, thank you.’ She let her gaze drop to her folded hands, playing the demure younger sister. But she watched him from the corner of her eye, taking in his beautifully cut evening dress, the candlelight glinting off his dark-blond hair, still damp with tiny beads of fog. He seemed to have grown taller in the years since they had met, and there was a lithe whip-cord strength about him, as if he might shake off his evening jacket and put up his fists and fight, just as he and Alexis used to do when they were boys. There was a familiar crook in his nose from where Alexis had hit him once, a lucky right-hander that had broken the bone. And Alexis still bore the cluster of scars above his eye where Sebastian had hit him back and carried on punching.

‘It seems so long since we last met,’ he was saying. ‘Where can you have been cloistered?’

Rosa felt her cheeks flush as she remembered Alexis’ remark: like a novice nun. Had he told Sebastian all that had passed between them earlier? Was that what they’d been laughing about? She felt her cheeks flame.

‘I’ve been in the country with Mama.’ Too tedious to be in London in mourning, that had been Mama’s verdict. What was the point of London when one couldn’t attend balls and parties? Mama had called it ‘purgatory’. For Rosa it had felt more like heaven. For a moment she closed her eyes, thinking of Matchenham: the long shadows across the hay meadows where she galloped in the summer evenings when Mama was laid up with the headache; the cool echoing rooms; the vast ballroom which once held balls and levees, where now only mice danced across the scuffed parquet floor.

Then she realized Sebastian was speaking and opened them again.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘At Matchenham, I was asking. Were you at Matchenham?’