Yes, she whispered stories to me as I slept; I felt her hand on my hair and her voice singing softly:

‘Aux marches du palais…

Aux marches du palais…

’Y a une si belle fille, lonlà,

’Y a une si belle fille…’

I looked down on the body stretched out on the bed; poor little white girl…would anyone wait for her?

Mose would wait for me. I knew he would; he had promised to wake me. I knew he’d wake me. When Fanny first told me of the plan I refused. I was frightened; I didn’t want to wait in the dark as they sealed the vault over my head; even with the laudanum I was sure I’d go mad…but she assured me, no more than ten minutes, then he’d come and I could wake up. Then we’d be together, Mose and I, and nothing could ever part us. I knew. He had promised.

Henry had sent Tabby away to see her family and my heart ached for her. I longed to have my dear Tabby with me during those cold, dark hours, to hear her kind scolding voice, to smell her good scents of dough and starch and polish, to have her tuck the blankets around me as I lay in bed…

Tomorrow, I told myself, Tabby would believe I was dead. Aunt May would believe it too, growing suddenly old behind the counter of the little shop in Cranbourn Alley. Mother would have to forgo her frivolous bonnets and her rides in Mr Zellini’s gig-she would wear black, which did not become her, in mourning for the daughter she had never really understood. Would I dare to call on them, when I was safely out of Henry’s reach? I didn’t think I would ever be brave enough. I would be dead to them, dead for ever. I could not risk Henry ever finding out.

The night grew cold; snow latticed my window and blew shrieking down the chimney, hissing on the hot stones of the hearth. Wind mourned through the chimneys and the hours ticked away. Tizzy sat on my knee for a time, purring, her eyes narrowed into crescents of gold in the firelight…I wondered whether Henry would look after my cat when I was gone.

Suddenly I was jolted by a scraping of feet against the floorboards outside the door. My heart began to beat wildly. It was Henry, not with poison but with something more effective to still my troublesome heart: a knife, a cleaver, a rope cunningly knotted. The door swung open. His face was greenish in the gaslight, like a child’s painting of a witch, his eyelids drawn down into long flaps of shadow. Thankful for the discipline I had learned in years of sitting as a model for Henry I forced my face into an expression of sleepy quietude, and yawned.

‘Is that you, Tabby?’ I murmured.

His voice was gentle, almost tender. ‘It’s me. Henry. I’ve brought you something.’ His hand brushed the nape of my neck, scorching me with his fever. ‘Chocolate. For my little girl. I didn’t want you to be neglected just because Tabby is away.’

‘Chocolate. Thank you.’ I smiled vaguely. ‘That will help me to sleep, won’t it?’

‘Yes, it will. Sleep well, Effie…’ He kissed the top of my head and there was his breath, hot and moist against my hair. I felt his smile.

‘Goodnight, Mr Chester.’

‘Goodnight, Effie.’

When he had gone, I threw Henry’s chocolate away and, as I lay on my bed, I willed my subtle body to rise. I could do this effortlessly now and, moving from room to room, I flew all over the house then out into the snow. I felt the snowflakes rush through my body but I felt no cold, only the burning exhilaration of my soul’s flight. I waited: in my present state I had little notion of time and I might have been drifting for hours, rocked in the arms of the storm, before I saw them coming out of the house. My heart gave a leap as it recognized Mose, with his old hat jammed down over his eyes and the collar of his greatcoat turned up against the cold. Henry was beside him and from my whistling eyrie I could see him clearly.

He was grotesque, a dwarf, comically foreshortened by the odd perspective, an eye glancing up from beneath his hat, a pair of mittened hands upheld to ward off my wind, my storm…I began to laugh. To think that that was all it took: a change of angle, to convert my terror and awe into contempt. I had been so used to looking up at the thin line of his mouth, the cold tunnels of his eyes, that I had forgotten the weakness, the cruelty and deceit which flawed him…From above I narrowed the gaze of my new perception to focus on things unseen and I saw the shifting cloud around his head, the murky halo of tortured colours which was his soul. From the mouth of the night I laughed-and maybe this time he heard me, because he glanced upwards and, for a moment, his wild gaze met mine in an instant of pure and hellish understanding…

But the dark delight which flooded me then lasted only for a second, for Mose was standing behind Henry, carrying the body of poor little Effie on his arm as if it weighed no more than the cloak which covered her from head to foot, and the face of my lover was half obscured by brightness, flawed by the spectral band which masked his face in a splash of brilliant scarlet, like the executioner’s crimson hood.

She was lying on the bed with her hair loose, her breathing so light that for an instant I thought she was really dead. The vial of laudanum was beside her on the bedstand, with the empty chocolate-cup next to it, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Henry touch the discarded cup with a hand which seemed as brittle and translucent as the china. Effie was wearing her grey dress and against the colourless fabric her skin seemed luminous, her hair touched with pale phosphorescence as it coiled across the bedspread and to the floor. For an instant my eye was caught by the brooch at her throat, a present from Fanny, a silver thing shaped like an arched cat, which mirrored the greenish light. Behind me I heard Henry make some inarticulate sound, like choking.

‘She’s asleep.’ I spoke briskly, not wanting Henry’s resolve to weaken. ‘Where’s her cloak?’

Henry pointed to where the cloak hung behind the door.

‘Help me wrap her in it. Does it have a hood? Better find a bonnet.’ Henry did not move. ‘Hurry, man!’ I said impatiently. ‘I can’t manage her on my own.’

Mutely he shook his head in disgust.

‘I…I can’t touch her. Take these,’ he added, thrusting the cloak and bonnet at me. ‘Put them on her.’

I shrugged irritably and set to work with the bonnet-strings and the cloak-buttons. She was light, and I found that I could carry her on my arm like a child, her head hanging against my shoulder and her feet barely touching the ground. Henry was reluctant to touch her even then; he opened doors for me, shutting them behind us with his usual prissy attention to detail, rearranged ornaments, turned down the gaslight in the hall and pulled on his boots and his coat without once looking at either her or me. Some ten minutes later we stepped out into the snow and Henry locked the door behind us. Now there would be no turning back.

Suddenly I saw Henry stop, his body stiffening. A cat had sprung out across our path, one paw held high: I recognized Effie’s cat Tizzy, yellow eyes gleaming wildly with excitement at the big snowflakes whirling about her. A strangled sound came from Henry’s mouth as he saw the cat. Looking at his face I was convinced that he was about to suffer some kind of an attack: his features were unravelling like a piece of knitting.

‘Aahaah…’

‘Don’t be a fool, man!’ I snapped more sharply than I intended. ‘It’s only a cat. Pull yourself together, for God’s sake.’ The whole situation was beginning to work upon my own nerves. ‘Get your arm around her,’ I ordered, deliberately brutal. ‘When you’ve got rid of her, then you can indulge in remorse if you like, but now…’

He nodded and began to move again; I saw hate in his eyes, but I didn’t care. It would help to take his mind from other things.