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into a maiden’s throat, before being pulled back to expose a ruby red necklace of punctured flesh. There. Was it unsettling, or only to her eyes? Her mind flitted over the text of Histoires ou contes du temps passé and its tale of that other dreaded husband: La Barbe Bleue, the ugly Breton king. She felt another small thrill.
    After her mother had died, Aimée had inherited a cache of leather-bound books – French fairytales, Maman’s favourite. Father had dismissed them with a sniff as ‘rubbish’, but Nounou had taken them up to the nursery anyway. After her governess had taught her to read, Aimée had sought solace in the elaborate tales of kingdoms, princesses and enchantments, which made her feel somehow closer to Maman. Little was ever as it seemed in the stories, and that’s what she liked best. It was a far cry from the boredom and dreary predictability of life on the estate. Still – the grotesque and oddly titillating details in the stories seemed to have escaped Father’s notice, and for that Aimée was glad. Otherwise, he was very strict about what she was permitted to read. His library – always kept locked – was strictly forbidden. Aimée supposed that he did not think it worth educating a girl, and a plain, awkward one at that.
    Standing now with the collar in her hands, Aimée could hardly believe how much work it represented – the many hours it had taken her. She did feel some relief to be finished, it was true. Opening the hidden drawer beneath her sewing box, she placed the collar inside on its burgundy velvet plinth and slid the drawer closed. She only needed to attach it to Maman’s gown, then her wedding dress would be complete. She must call for Faustine to fetch it for her. Aimée opened the drawer again. In that split second she felt she’d caught the collar unawares. The dark mercury beads looked somehow different in the dying light. Malevolent, almost. But then it appeared to recover itself before her eyes, the collar sparkling up at her benignly, a thing of beauty once again.
    Aimée felt clutched by a strange sensation and slammed the drawer shut. Why, it was like something out of one of Maman’s books!Her imagination ran wild for a moment, and she felt a tiny thrill of fear. Sinking back into her chair, Aimée told herself to stop it – this was nonsense! She felt under the cushion for her book. Now, here was the real terror: a book of poems by Christina Rossetti, stolen from Father’s library. She’d neglected to return it last week. She hadn’t wanted to let the book go, favouring it above all others. The book was ecstasy, really – Aimée adored it, but knew she was foolish to have kept it so long.
    Maman had loved all things English, Nounou had said. The languages, the fashions, the poetry. Surely the slim volume had been hers then? It didn’t make any sense for Father to have owned it otherwise. But of all the books in his library, it was Aimée’s most secret pleasure. She understood why he hadn’t given it to her along with the other books of fairytales. The passion contained within its pages was obvious – and so unseemly for a young woman of her place in society. Father always told her, ‘Love is a wasted emotion, Aimée. Duty and honour, that’s what’s more important.’ It made Aimée wonder why he’d even wed Maman in the first place; their marriage had so clearly been one of passion rather than convenience. Aimée had always been amazed by their wedding pictures – the look of adoration in his eyes as he gazed at Amandine, and the open look of love in her mother’s own. They had been happy once, that much was obvious.
    Looking out through the parlour window towards the fading sky, Aimée was struck afresh by the thought that at this time tomorrow, the château would no longer be her home. She would be leaving it, and likely