On Thursday, I pleaded a headache in order to go to bed early and, at half past ten, I crept out of the house. At a reasonable distance from the house I hailed a cab to Crook Street, arriving there at about eleven as instructed. As soon as I passed the threshold I began to feel that spiralling, floating sensation again, the elated terror of my laudanum-dreams, the naked formlessness of my nocturnal flights. A girl opened the door, gaping, her face oddly distorted in the greenish gaslight; another girl’s face appeared behind hers, and behind hers another, until there were a multitude of disconnected features fanning out down the passage…I stumbled against the step, keeping my balance by leaning on the door-jamb; a dozen hands reached for me and, as they drew me into the passage, I caught sight of my face in the mirrors bracketed to the wall on either side of the doorway: a line of images receding into infinity; white face, white hair, cronelike among the pretty faces, painted lips and bright ribbons of the other girls. A door opened abruptly to my left and Fanny was at my side.

‘Hello, my dear,’ she said, taking my arm to lead me into the parlour. ‘And how are you?’

I grasped the stiff green satin sleeve of her gown to steady myself. ‘Oh, Fanny,’ I whispered. ‘Just hold me for a moment. I’m so frightened. I don’t even know what I’m doing here.’

‘Shhh…’ She pulled me towards her in a rough, one-handed embrace, and I could smell tobacco and amber and Pears’ soap on her skin, a strangely reassuring combination which somehow reminded me of Mose. ‘Trust me, my dear,’ she said softly. ‘Do as I say and you’ll be safe. Trust no-one else. You may not understand yet what we are doing but, believe me, I do. Henry Chester has done enough-I’ll not let him hurt you again. I’ll give you your vengeance.’

I was hardly listening: it was enough to feel her strong arm around my shoulder and her hand smoothing my hair. I closed my eyes and for the first time in many days I felt I might be able to sleep without fear of my dreams.

‘Where’s Mose?’ I asked sleepily. ‘He said he’d come. Where is he?’

‘Later,’ promised Fanny. ‘He’ll be there, I promise. Here. Sit down for a while.’ I opened my eyes as she pushed me gently but firmly towards a small couch in front of the fire. Gratefully, I leaned back against the cushions.

‘Thank you, Fanny,’ I said. ‘I’m so…tired.’

‘Drink this,’ she suggested, handing me a small goblet filled with a warm, sweet liquid fragrant with vanilla and blackberry, and I drank, feeling a pleasant relaxation spread through my shaking body.

‘Good girl. Now you can rest awhile.’

I smiled and allowed my gaze to wander lazily around the little parlour. It was a tiny room, furnished all in shades of red, with the same Oriental opulence as the rest of Fanny’s house. There was a fine Persian rug on the floor, fans and masks hanging on the wall and a Chinese fire-screen half shielding the glow from the chimney. The furniture was of cedar and rosewood, upholstered in damask and scarlet. Megaera and Alecto were sitting in front of the screen on a mat, and on the table stood a tinted glass vase of red roses. For a moment, as I raised my hands to my face, I saw that, miraculously, I too had become a part of the change: my skin was tinted a glorious shade of flame, my hair a scarlet sunrise in the lamplight. I was filled with warmth and well-being. Almost unconsciously I reached for another drink of Fanny’s punch, feeling new energy trail thin fire down my throat. A sense of sudden, intense clarity came over me.

‘I do feel much better now, Fanny,’ I said in a stronger voice. ‘Please, tell me what we are going to do.’

She nodded, sitting down on the sofa beside me in a rustle of skirts. The two cats immediately came to her, pressing their soft faces into her hands and purring. She clucked and chirrupped at them, calling them by name.

‘How is Tizzy?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Is she treating you well?’

‘Yes,’ I replied with a smile. ‘She sleeps on my bed at night and sits with me when I’m alone. Henry hates her, but I don’t care.’

‘Good.’ For a second Fanny’s generous mouth seemed to tighten, almost cruelly, and she watched the cats on her lap with a fierce, hard intensity. I felt that she had completely forgotten my existence.

‘Fanny!’

‘My dear!’ The smile was back, her expression as serene as ever. I began to doubt I had ever seen it change.

‘What am I to do when Henry comes? Will I hide, as Mose said?’

She shook her head. ‘No, my dear, you will not hide. For the moment you will trust me, knowing that I care for you and would not allow you to be hurt. But you will have to be brave and you will have to do exactly as I say. Will you?’

I nodded.

‘Good. No questions, then. Promise?’

‘I promise.’

For an instant my eyes strayed from hers and were caught by something at the back of the room, something which from the corner of my eye seemed to be a bunch of balloons. I started, glancing involuntarily at the spot, and I felt Fanny’s grip tighten, just a little, on my arm.

‘What’s that?’

There were no balloons. Simply a circular stain in the top far corner of the room, next to the door.

‘Shh, my dear,’ said Fanny coaxingly. ‘Don’t fret. You’re quite safe here.’

‘I thought I saw…’ My words were heavy, each syllable a formless shape pushing its way through the decaying fabric of my exhaustion. ‘I saw balloons. What…what do balloons…?’

‘Shh. Close your eyes. That’s right. Shh…That’s right. Sleep, my dear. Sleep. It’s your birthday, and there will be balloons. I promise.’

The clock on the mantelpiece said a quarter past eleven. I looked at her, asleep on the sofa, and it was as if the bones beneath Effie’s face had shifted to become less pronounced, blurred, like an unfinished child’s face.

‘Marta!’

She shifted slightly as I called her, raising her fingers to her mouth in that peculiarly childish habit she had always had.

‘Marta, time to wake up.’

Her eyes opened, puzzled at first, then fixing my own with a sweet trust which tore at the heart.

‘Have I been asleep?’ she queried, rubbing her eyes.

‘Yes, Marta; you’ve been asleep for a long time…’ I felt my heart leap in elation; it was Marta’s childishly deep voice, blurred now with sleep and gently accented with a nostalgic echo of my mother.

‘Is he here yet?’

‘No, but he will be soon. We have to get you ready for him. Come with me.’

She was docile, following me without a sound, her hand in mine. I prayed I was doing the right thing.

‘First we have to make sure he doesn’t recognize you,’ I told her, leading her up the stairs to my own room. ‘I’m going to lend you one of my dresses, then we’ll change your face and your hair.’

‘All right.’ Her sweet smile did not waver. ‘And I won’t be afraid?’

‘No,’ I replied, ‘you won’t be afraid. You’ll be strong and brave, as I told you.’

‘Yes…’

‘He won’t even recognize you. And when he asks your name, what will you say?’

‘I’m Marta.’

‘Good.’

‘This is called henna, Marta,’ I said as we rinsed her hair. ‘It will darken your hair so that Henry won’t recognize you. When Henry has gone we’ll wash it out with something which will make it go clean again. All right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Now I’ll help you put on this dress of mine: I haven’t worn it for a long time, and I was younger and slimmer then. It’s pretty, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘And after that we’ll put some powder and rouge on your face to make you look different.’

‘He won’t recognize me.’

‘Not now you’re older.’

Imagine the image from a photographic plate as it transfers the picture to paper, growing darker and darker from white to palest gold, from amber to sepia. Imagine the moon as she turns her thin profile slowly to full-face, pulling the tides with her. Imagine the chrysalis as it cracks open the larva’s hard coffin and shows its wings to the sun. Does the imago mourn for the caterpillar it once was? Does it even remember?