But here my rage struck an obstacle: Marta was no Haymarket whore. I knew that, even as my mind tried to lash my temper into a greater frenzy. I remembered her touch, her voice, the taste of her skin with a lover’s intensity…

‘Marta…’ The sound of my voice made me flinch; I did not know I had spoken aloud. Anxiously I glanced at Effie. Alerted by my voice, she seemed to stir beneath the coverlet, turning restlessly on the pillow with a little childish sound. I held my breath at the door, willing her to sleep. For a minute or two I stayed there motionless, afraid to disturb her; then I pushed the door open, very gently, and stepped out into the passage.

Suddenly I felt something touch my leg and, in an absurd twist of near-panic, I thought of the Columbine doll with Prissy Mahoney’s face, reaching for me in the dark. I almost screamed. Then I saw the eldritch gleam of its eyes in the shadows and swore softly. Effie’s damned cat again!

I hissed at it, and it hissed back, then it returned to its element, the darkness, and I crept into the safety of my own room.

When I awoke, the sunlight was streaming through the open window and Tabby was sitting at my bedside with a tray of chocolate and biscuits. I reached within my memory for the dreams of the past night, but found nothing but a few intense, fragmented images: Fanny sitting by the fire with Meg and Alecto, my head in her lap; Mose’s face, ochre in the firelight; and Henry’s mouth smiling with a tenderness he never showed after our marriage…Bright images, disassociated as the pictures in a pack of scattered cards…and yet I felt a sensation of release and well-being I had not felt since the baby died.

I sat up abruptly, feeling suddenly ravenous. I drank the chocolate and ate all the biscuits, then I asked Tabby to bring me some toast.

‘I’ll swear, I’m feeling quite recovered this morning,’ I said gaily.

‘I’m very glad to hear it, ma’am, I’m sure,’ answered Tabby carefully, ‘but I hope you won’t go tiring yourself out before you’re well again. Mr Chester did say…’

‘Mr Chester? Where is he today?’

‘He said he’d go to his studio to work, and wouldn’t be back till tonight.’

I hoped my relief was not too apparent. ‘I see,’ I said, with a fair assumption of carelessness. ‘Well, I think today I’ll be well enough for a short walk. The fresh air will do me good, and it’s a lovely day, don’t you think?’

‘Mr Chester did say, ma’am…’

‘He said I wasn’t to tire myself so soon after my illness. I think I am wise enough to judge for myself whether a short walk will do any harm.’

‘Very good, ma’am.’

I hugged myself in secret delight, feeling as if I had scored a small victory.

I allowed Em to dress me in a smart gold-coloured walking-dress and matching bonnet. Looking at myself in the mirror I noticed how pale I had become in the past few weeks, how shadowed my eyes seemed under the brim of the bonnet, and I smiled bravely at my reflection to brighten the haunted expression which even now seemed to lurk behind the bones of my face. Enough, I told myself. I had been ill, but that was over now: Mose had put it right, and soon, we could…I passed my hand over my eyes, feeling suddenly confused. What had we done, Mose and I? Had I gone to Crook Street the night before? If so, what had I done there?

A wave of dizziness washed over me and I held on to the dressing-table to stop myself from falling. A rogue memory emerged from the confusion of my thoughts: Fanny washing my hair in a basin and drying it with her fingers…watching red ochre wash from the pale strands of my hair…No, that must have been a dream. Why should Fanny want to dye my hair? I frowned at my reflection, trying to remember, but as I looked I seemed to see my eyes change colour, my hair darken, my skin warm to the pale gold of China tea…I felt my fingers grow numb, my jaw drop, my soul slip out of my body like a leaf out of a book…and I knew I should remember…But it was so much easier to drift like a balloon at the mercy of every wind, to hear Fanny’s gentle voice telling me to sleep, that it was all right, that I could forget, that it was all right…

I felt the nervous double-jerk which drew me back into my body, and I forced the memory back into the dark. I didn’t want to remember.

(Shh it’s all right you don’t have to you don’t need to it’s all shhh…)

I didn’t need to remember. Fanny had it all under control.

It was mid-morning by the time I left the house; I reached Mose’s rooms at noon. He was just getting up, his eyes reddened from lack of sleep and his fair hair falling messily over his pallid face. Even in that condition I was struck, as always, by the purity of his features, his almost feminine beauty-feminine that is, if you were to discount the perverse lines around his mouth, the narrowed, troubling eyes and the perpetual mockery. Through the gap in the doorway he flashed his smile at me-half a smile, at least, for half of his face was all I could see through the narrow opening. A breath of stale air and cigar-smoke drifted from the doorway.

‘Effie! Wait a minute.’

The door closed again, reopening a few minutes later to reveal Mose’s untidy room. He had obviously tried to create some semblance of order, and the windows were open. He gave me a careless kiss on the mouth and sprawled across a chair, grinning.

‘A drink of brandy, Effie?’

I shook my head, watching Mose splash a generous dose of dark liquid into a glass, downing it in one easy, practised gesture.

‘To celebrate,’ he explained, pouring another glassful. ‘You did magnificently last night, my dear.’

Last night?

He must have seen my puzzled expression, because he grinned even more broadly and raised his glass to me in a mock salute.

‘I understand your modesty, my dear,’ he said teasingly. ‘Most inelegant of me even to mention it. Still, it’s thanks to your spectacular performance that we have dear Henry in our pockets. All you have to do is to show a little patience and he’ll be ours. Yours,’ he amended emphatically, finishing the little which remained in his glass. ‘All yours.’

Some instinct warned me not to reveal my loss of memory. I needed time to think.

‘Are you saying that your idea worked?’

‘Better than that,’ said Mose, ‘Henry swallowed the whole thing, hook, line and sinker. What’s more, Fanny says he fell for Marta like a ton of bricks.’ (A troubling, intimate wink in my direction.) ‘A couple of weeks and we’ll be able to make dear Henry pay whatever we like.’

‘Oh!’ I was beginning to understand that, at least. ‘But what about me? You said…’

‘Patience, my dear.’ Somehow I found his smile too knowing. ‘Give me a couple of weeks to work on him. Then, with the money…How would you like to live in France, my dear?’

I stared at him, confused, ‘France?’

‘Or Germany, or Italy if you prefer. They say there’s a good market for painters in Italy.’

‘I don’t understand.’ I was almost in tears: his grin now seemed monstrously gleeful, that of a troll.

‘Of course, Henry might not allow you a divorce,’ he continued relentlessly, ‘so you might never be able to come home. But what would you miss? Who would miss you? I’m asking you to be Mrs Moses Harper, you goose,’ he explained, as I stared blankly at him. ‘With Henry’s money we could establish ourselves comfortably enough, and with my paintings we could make a decent living. Of course, there’d be a scandal, but by that time you’d be long gone-and would you care?’

I continued to stare. I felt like a clockwork toy with a faulty mechanism, filled with the potential for movement but frozen into stupid silence.

‘Well,’ said Mose, after a long silence, ‘that will teach me to be so arrogant. I rather thought I had charisma. Now I see that you’d rather elope with the muffin-man.’