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whisk and the swirl of her: the flounce of her entry into the stables; the stamp of buttoned boots on cobbled floor; the rising of alarmed wisps of straw; and the sweep of her ascent into the saddle. Then the turn and hurtle of Lucky and her disappearance into the light.
    As I grew, I developed from a pinched, blue baby to a pinched, pale child, undersized and odd-looking, so I was told, with a great mass of sooty black hair and hazel-yellow eyes too big in my narrow face. Once I was, in Lady Vennaway’s words, “old enough to be of any use to anyone,” I was immediately seized upon to be of use to everyone.
    Robin taught me to distinguish weeds from plants, and I was taught to hold a currycomb and groom a horse as soon as I could stand upright. Cook showed me how to sort through apples, potatoes, and other wholesome produce to check for rot.
    My landscape was mostly of legs: kitchen-table legs (and the kingdom of crumbs and onions between); brown-trousered legs hard at work; smart, black-trousered legs standing guard over the Vennaway domain; horses’ legs; legs up ladders; and legs hidden by skirts in a constant whirl of activity.
    I have only dim recollections of this period but they are mostly pleasant. I remember it in shifting blocks of smell, sound, and color. The kitchen was onions and syrup, clanging and shouting, black oven and red fire. The gardens were earth and apples, the soft, rhythmic chuff of spade in dirt, rainbow and raindrop. The stables were hay and horse, whinny and wind, gold and brown, and dust and gleaming.
    From as early as I can remember, Aurelia would appear almost daily and play with me or take me for walks. Although I spent a great deal of time in the gardens anyway, they appeared so different when she held my grubby little hand in her elegantly gloved one and pointed out her favorite flowers and birds. She knew just as much about the plants and creatures as Robin did, but it was a different kind of knowledge. She knew the Latin names for things and where they originated from; Robin knew what they liked and how to make them thrive.
    I adored her. She was beautiful, kind, and radiant and treated me as her own special pet.
    My favorite times were when she would read me to sleep. My bed was by this time in the scullery. No one else slept there; the servants were housed far away, high in the attics. But I was reckoned to be too little to cope with all those stairs, and the working day was such that I was only ever alone for a very few hours each night. Sometimes Aurelia would slip down at bedtime, pull up a chair, and lean close. I would lay my head on her arm and listen to her voice: melodious, merry, and somehow different from all the other voices I knew. Whether there was drumming rain outside or whether a lilac summer dusk hummed and twittered as a fine day faded, those times felt magical and blessed.

Chapter Six

    On my first night away from Hatville Court, in the narrow bed in the Rose and Crown, I sleep poorly. It does not surprise me. Since Aurelia died my heart is like a wild animal. It sleeps with one eye open, with a new wariness I feel will never go away. I wake early.
    A series of realizations crowd in upon me like guests at a ball, so swift and swooping they leave me breathless. Emotions accompany them like chaperones. No Aurelia—grief like the tightest, meanest of corsets. No Hatville Court—an equal blend of fear and relief. Today, apparently, I am to go to London! A lurch of trepidation. And the letter. Letters! Wild hope and joy. There is more of Aurelia to come, to keep me moving forward through these dark days.
    I wash and dress. I have no appetite but for the first time in days I am minded to look after myself, so I will eat. I have business to carry out, Aurelia’s business. How clever she was! She knew that if any one thing on earth could compel me onwards, it would be my sense of devotion to her. She could be dead a thousand years and I would still