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three shared the distinctive Ashbury colouring—golden hair and eyes the fine, clear blue of Wedgwood porcelain—the legacy of Lord Ashbury’s mother, a Dane who (so said Myra) had married for love and been disowned, her dowry withdrawn. (She’d had the last laugh though, said Myra, when her husband’s brother passed and she became Lady Ashbury of the British Empire.) The taller girl stood in the centre of the room, wielding a handful of papers as she described the niceties of leprous infections. The younger sat on the floor, legs crossed, watching her sister with widening blue eyes, her arm draped absently around Raverley’s neck. I was surprised, and a little horrified, to see he had been dragged from his corner and was enjoying a rare moment of inclusion. The boy knelt on the window seat, gazing down through the fog toward the churchyard.
    ‘And then you turn around to face the audience, Emmeline, and your face will be completely leprous,’ the taller girl said gleefully.
    ‘What’s leprous?’
    ‘A skin disease,’ the older girl said. ‘Lesions and mucus, the usual stuff.’
    ‘Perhaps we could have her nose rot off, Hannah,’ said the boy, turning to wink at Emmeline.
    ‘Yes,’ said Hannah seriously. ‘Excellent.’
    ‘No,’ Emmeline wailed.
    ‘Honestly Emmeline, don’t be such a baby. It’s not really going to rot off,’ Hannah said. ‘We’ll make some kind of mask. Something hideous. I’ll see if I can find a medical book in the library. Hopefully there’ll be pictures.’
    ‘I don’t see why I have to be the one to get leprosy,’ Emmeline said.
    ‘Take it up with God,’ Hannah said. ‘He wrote it.’
    ‘But why do I have to play Miriam. Can’t I play a different part?’
    ‘There are no other parts,’ Hannah said. ‘David has to be Aaron, because he’s the tallest, and I’m playing God.’
    ‘Can’t I be God?’
    ‘Certainly not. I thought you wanted the main part.’
    ‘I did,’ Emmeline said. ‘I do.’
    ‘Well then. God doesn’t even get to be on stage,’ Hannah said.
    ‘I have to do my lines from behind a curtain.’
    ‘I could play Moses,’ Emmeline said. ‘Raverley can be Miriam.’
    ‘You’re not playing Moses,’ Hannah said. ‘We need a real Miriam. She’s far more important than Moses. He only has one line. That’s why Raverley’s standing in. I can say his line from behind my curtain—I may even cut Moses altogether.’
    ‘Perhaps we could do another scene instead,’ Emmeline said hopefully. ‘One with Mary and the baby Jesus?’
    Hannah huffed disgustedly.
    They were rehearsing a play. Alfred the footman had told me there was to be a family recital on the bank holiday weekend. It was a tradition: some family members sang, others recited poetry, the children always performed a scene from their grandmother’s favourite book.
    ‘We’ve chosen this scene because it’s important,’ said Hannah.
    ‘ You’ve chosen it because it’s important,’ said Emmeline.
    ‘Exactly,’ said Hannah. ‘It’s about a father having two sets of rules: one for his sons and one for his daughters.’
    ‘Sounds perfectly reasonable to me,’ said David ironically. Hannah ignored him. ‘Both Miriam and Aaron are guilty of the same thing: discussing their brother’s marriage—’
    ‘What were they saying?’ Emmeline said.
    ‘It’s not important, they were just—’
    ‘Were they saying mean things?’
    ‘No, and it’s not the point. The important thing is that God decides Miriam should be punished with leprosy while Aaron gets no worse than a talking-to. Does that sound fair to you, Emme?’
    ‘Didn’t Moses marry an African woman?’ Emmeline said. Hannah shook her head, exasperated. She did that a lot, I noticed. A fierce energy infused her every long-limbed movement, led her easily to frustration. Emmeline, by contrast, had the calculated posture of a doll come to life. Their features, similar when considered individually—two slightly aquiline