2

I know I’m dreaming but cannot shed the sensation that the moment is being lived yet again.

It’s the day my mother realised what I could do. The morning is cold, icy and we are in one of the small rented rooms that peppered my childhood. I’m five, no, six; we have not been here long. Mother’s made a deal for some firewood and bread with the landlord, whose wife doesn’t like her. We’re sitting in front of a tiny fire eating stale bread, she on the only seat in the place, me on the floor, cross-legged on one of the thick coats she managed to smuggle out of the last household we joined, however briefly. When night falls, we’ll spread it over the thin bed we share to keep the cold at bay.

There’s not much kindling and we must eke it out. The flames in the hearth are feeble, barely any heat coming from them, and hardly a gleam of light to spark off Heloise’s glorious red hair. I’m staring at the fingers of pallid orange with their occasional flicker of blue and I’m wishing, oh how I am wishing they were larger. Higher. Hotter. I don’t know when the fire grows, all I’m aware of is that I’m warmer, the flames are leaping.

‘Asher!’

I don’t know how long my mother is calling me, either, but I know when her fingers close over my shoulder. I’m still well-fed from the last house, there’s fat on me, but her nails dig in and hurt. ‘Mama! What did I do wrong?’

‘What did you do? What are you doing?’ Her face is so close, her eyes fair burning. ‘I’ve been watching you, watching that fire.’ She loosens her grip on me and I want to cry out with relief. ‘You can’t do that again, Asher.’

‘But, Mama, I only wished.’

And the look she gives me… I couldn’t recognise it then, but I would see it again in the years that followed. Oh, I could see fear. Fear for herself, for me. But I came to realise as I grew that there was also a sort of hope, a kind of ambition. The beginnings of a plan, even then.

Heloise kneels beside me, gathers me up and says, ‘My dove, you must not do such things. You must not ever let people see that. You can’t let them know you’re different. They’ll burn you, my heart, or drown you in the cold depths.’ She strokes my hair, crooning that I must learn to keep secrets, and I do not sleep that night for the terror sinks into my bones and makes me shiver.

I’ve never played with fire since.

*   *   *

I wake with a sudden weight on my stomach, painful, the violence of it at odds with the high giggling that accompanies it. For long moments I’m disoriented – as I have been every night and day for the past few weeks since leaving the house that is not mine in Whitebarrow – then I smell the lilac and remember where I am. Opening my eyes, I find two faces, small and round and pleasing, girls of about five and ten. The littlest is right on top of me, red-haired, blue-eyed, striking. The elder reclines beside me, brown curls tumbling, pale skin, eyes that match her sister’s. They both wear dresses of red plaid. I smile in spite of the discomfort and irritation at such an incursion. ‘Good morning. You will be Sarai and Albertine.’

I gently dislodge Sarai and sit up, prepared to play, but then I see the boy, who will be the nine-year-old Connell, in navy trews, a white shirt and a short jacket. He is by the dressing table and has the mouth of the carpet bag – which I’d carelessly left unhidden, thinking this room sacrosanct – in his hands, not quite open. A spear of anger rushes through me as if it’s fire and I give a formless cry. The boy startles and steps away – for a moment I think he will pull the bag and make it fall, but the receptacle remains safe.

I push Albertine and she rolls off the bed with a squeak. I follow, kicking her accidentally. The boy’s eyes as I lunge are huge; I grab his upper arm. I feel my mother’s rage shoot through me as if I’m the conduit for the worst of her. My fingers bite into the softness there and although part of me says No, I cannot quite stop. I tighten my grip and shout into his face.

‘How dare you?! How dare you?!’

And he begins to cry. Behind me his sisters set up a howling and I at last manage to leash my temper. I let him go, but he’s too afraid to move. Straightening, I take deep breaths, then touch his shoulder; he’s shuddering. I’m ashamed. This is not a good start.

In my fury, with my height, I must be a giant to him. I crouch so we’re eye-to-eye.

‘Connell. I am sorry to have shouted, but you must not interfere with other people’s effects. This is mine, this is private. This chamber is my own space while I am here, so you will promise me now never to come in again without my permission. Connell?’

Tears spill with the jerky motion of his nod. Mine are not far behind, but I push them away.

‘You must speak it aloud, Connell, or it’s not a proper promise.’

‘I promise. I promise, Miss Todd.’ His voice trembles, but he sounds as sincere as he does fearful.

‘Good boy. Now,’ I gently tap him under the chin and smile, ‘we are friends, yes?’

‘Yes, Miss Todd.’ A shaky smile.

‘And because we are friends, you may call me Miss Asher,’ I say and he blinks in surprise. I turn to the girls, who’ve subsided, sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘And you, misses both, do you solemnly promise never to enter uninvited?’

‘Yes, Miss Asher,’ they chorus.

‘Then all is well and forgiven. Now, I must prepare.’ I glance at the clock on the mantle – still early – I wonder who dressed them. ‘We shall meet downstairs in an hour and we shall begin afresh.’

When they are gone, I sink into the armchair, shaking. No matter what my very good reference letter says, I have little experience of children. But I know enough that such a fury will be all they remember of me. Yet I wanted them to like me.

Rising, I check on the carpet bag and its contents; nothing has been disturbed. I notice then that a fresh tray has replaced last night’s empty one: a bowl of porridge, a silver pot and cup, two pieces of bread, some jam and butter. So: someone else has entered while I slept so deeply. The lilac room is busy as a market square.

I must find a hiding place. There is a lock on my door, yet a locked room looks like there’s something to conceal. My trunk is another matter – a secured chest simply seems like a natural caution. Still, I will need somewhere else to store my secrets – locks can be picked all too easily.

*   *   *

A little less than an hour later, there is a tentative knock. I wear a deep green baize frock, a still-damp braid hangs down my back, the tiny seed pearl earrings that belonged to my mother nestle in my earlobes. The carpet bag is in the locked trunk for now. I pinch my cheeks and nip at my lips to add a little colour, but otherwise I am decidedly unadorned. A proper governess, with mud-water eyes and middling brown hair, nothing more, nothing less.

I open the door to find a young woman, perhaps eighteen – about ten years my junior – with blonde curls under a white mobcap, a pale blue frock with a pleated bodice, full skirts and a snowy apron over the top. She bobs a curtsey, somehow managing to make it look impertinent.

‘Miss Todd, would you come down? Master Luther and Mistress Jessamine will see you.’

How sweetly phrased yet entirely unrefusable an invitation. I give a smile which she doesn’t return, just turns and clips off, assuming I’ll follow. I do so.

‘May I have your name or is it to remain a mystery?’ I ask, teasing. She doesn’t look back, but I hear, faintly, the word Luned.

‘Was it you who ran the bath for me last night, Luned?’

‘Aye, and left your dinner, lit the fire,’ she says as if it was a great effort and not simply her duty. ‘Mrs Charlton told me to. You weren’t expected so soon.’ Just in case I should doubt the inconvenience caused.

‘Thank you. It was very pleasant to find everything prepared after such a journey. Have you worked here long, Luned?’

‘Almost two years,’ she says, and throws a glance over her shoulder. Her glance is sly, narrowed. ‘Longer than the last governess.’

‘Indeed?’ I say as if untroubled, as if I know nothing about the situation. ‘And where did she go?’

‘Ah, back where she came from, miss. Didn’t find our climate to her liking; a little too fertile, what with all the rain.’ And there’s a sound that might be a sigh or a snigger, but certainly all nerves.

I tuck that noise away, and her edgy hostility, make a note to keep an eye on her. She might as easily be foe or friend, and anything may tip the balance. Down the stairs, into the small entry hall again, then through the left-hand door, now opened, and along a corridor brightly lit by the sunshine pouring in the row of windows, also to the left. Outside the gardens look fresh and damp and very green, but there’s not a flower still on its stem after the violence of the storm: they lie in a carpet on the lawn, brilliant points of colour like gems; red, purple, orange, yellow, pink and violet. She points and calls as we go: ‘Parlour, Master Luther’s office, Mistress’s music room, breakfast room, dining room.’

Luned stops abruptly and I almost run into her as she throws open a door, ‘Library,’ then moves back so I may enter.

‘Thank you, Luned. I hope your day passes well.’

She looks surprised as she leans in to close the door behind me.

The panelling is dark, three leather couches wait in a U-shape before the fireplace where a blaze crackles, and there’s a small elaborately carved desk beneath the large window. Most of the walls are covered in shelving and I resist the urge to examine them before I do my new employers. I drag my gaze away from the tomes, fix a prim smile on my lips and peer at Luther and Jessamine Morwood.

I look at her first, sitting on one of the couches, embroidery in her lap. She is tiny, not much taller than her oldest child. Her fall of black hair seems to have had anxious fingers run through it more than once; eyes framed by long lashes, skin sallow. Her red silk dress is intricately made with bows and gold lace, ridiculous for everyday wear but the rich are a law unto themselves I have found. Around her throat is a ruby-encrusted choker, from her earlobes hang matching earrings, her fingers are heavy with rings, her wrists with bracelets. Surely she’s not dressed this way for my sake? But then she gives me a tremulous smile and I think that perhaps her husband’s the one who wants her to look like this: she’s a prize, a sign of his prosperity, an adorned wife.

In Whitebarrow, I heard tales of bejewelled cadavers kept in some churches, decorated saints, trapped beneath by bonds of gold, silver and gems all held together by curses and hex-prayers. Jessamine Morwood makes me think of those. I look away from her, the thought of corpses not one I want in my mind.

‘Miss Todd,’ says Luther Morwood, drawing attention to himself as he stands by the hearth in an ensemble of various shades of charcoal. He offers his hand, which I take, noticing the neatly trimmed nails, the way his shirtsleeve protrudes a uniform inch from the deep grey of his frockcoat. A gold watch chain hangs from a pocket. He is rather tall; his short hair and neat goatee are ruddy. His expression tells me he has no time for my kind.

Then it occurs to me. They are prosperous and I must know how prosperous; I must know what a privilege it is for me to be here even though the estate is so very remote; they need no peers or fancy townhouses in Lodellan or Breakwater or any of the cities ruled by princes and bishops and other stripes of thief. They are very, very wealthy and as long as I realise that, all will be well.

‘Mr and Mrs Morwood, it is a delight to meet you both,’ I say and let his hand go as quickly as might be polite; his palm is cold and dry, the sensation somehow as unpleasant as one sweaty and hot.

‘Your letter of reference was excellent, Miss Todd,’ he says, and I simply nod. I know. ‘Although we hardly need you; my wife is more than capable of ensuring they know their letters and numbers. Next year Connell will be sent to a boarding school, but until then he requires supervision and some tutoring. The girls, whatever you choose to teach them will do well enough.’

A flush rises in my face. His message is clear: I’m not welcome. I note he does not mention the governess before me.

I flick a glance at his wife; she’s got a well-trained expression and it’s only because I’m paying attention that I see the tightening of her nostrils and lips, the loss of colour. How long have they been married? Ten years at least to have Albertine. Where did Jessamine come from? Is she a Lodellan lady? Or from another estate close by? Or St Sinwin’s Harbour or Bellsholm? I wonder what existence Jessamine expected from her marriage.

‘I have knowledge of many subjects, including mathematics and some medicine, botany and biology – would you like me to prepare Connell for those? I assume you will wish him to attend a university. It will give him an advantage.’ I lower my gaze. ‘Your mother, who hired me, was quite clear about that.’

Luther Morwood is silent for a long moment – perhaps it’s unwise to show my teeth so soon – before clearing his throat. ‘Whitebarrow is a fine town, a fine university. Was your father a doctor or a lecturer there?’

‘I did not know my father, sir; he was gone before I was old enough to recall him and my mother did not wish to speak of him. I believe she found it too painful.’ Let them make what they will of that, either that it’s truth or a lie. That perhaps my parents knew each other no more than a night as a business transaction. That I am yet another bastard left behind by roaming scholars or soldiers, medical students or doctor-professors. It matters not: the letter of recommendation from Mater Hardgrace’s Academy is of the highest order, not at all forged, speaking of my intelligence, resourcefulness and determination. It contains but a few small lies, including my attendance at that institution. What learning I do have will be more than sufficient to teach the Morwood children. ‘I was simply fortunate that my mother believed in the benefits of learning; she scrimped and saved so I might do better than she had in life.’

‘Your mother is also deceased?’

‘Yes, sir. Gone almost two years. Her existence had been hard and she was worn out. Glad to go, I daresay.’ Another lie.

‘I’m sure she’s resting in the bosom of the Lord,’ chimes Mrs Morwood, and I struggle to keep my expression under control. No god offered Heloise comfort or took her soul in, and no god-hound blessed her passing.

Still, I manage to say, ‘Thank you. That is a kind wish.’

‘What a lovely ring, Miss Todd, most unusual,’ continues Jessamine Morwood, as if jewellery is a safe subject on which women might converse.

Instinctively, I try to hide it, then force a smile, and touch the thing as if it was always my fond intent. It was made for another’s hand; a slight glass dome covers a braided lock of mouse-brown hair, the same shade as my own.

‘A memento mori,’ I say truthfully. ‘Tell me, please, Mr Morwood, when shall I meet the elder Mrs Morwood?’ The temperature changes, a distinct chill in the air. ‘Only she was the one to employ me and I should like to offer my gratitude in person.’

‘Was there a problem earlier?’ Luther ignores my question, asks one of his own in a low tone, grinning as if about to catch me out. I tilt my head and he continues: ‘I heard a raised voice as I took the stairs. I didn’t recognise it so assumed it was yours. Perhaps the children were causing trouble?’

‘No, sir,’ I say, not too quickly. ‘Merely a disturbance in my sleep. I have travelled a good many days, and was disoriented upon waking. I think perhaps I cried out. Tomorrow will be better. I shall endeavour not to break the peace of your house again.’

‘I have a tincture for sleeping, should you require it,’ Jessamine pipes up. Her husband glares at her.

‘Thank you so much, Mrs Morwood, that is tremendously kind. I shall let you know.’ I smile at them both. ‘And now if that is all, shall I attend to the children?’

Luther Morwood nods curtly. ‘My mother will wish to see you, Miss Todd, of course. She will call for you this afternoon.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

I leave the library and hear a whisper in the corridor, a conspiracy of mice, and am careful to quickly close the door after me. Albertine, Connell and Sarai await; it’s clear from their expressions they were listening and heard me lie for them. I offer my hands: Albertine and Connell take them and Sarai moulds herself to my skirts in a hug.