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other attendant haul Miss Gorman to her feet and they half-carry her from the room.
    After locking the cabinet, Weeks turns back to me, fixing me with her black eyes. "Mind yourself, Miss Childs. You think you're so clever, but I shall be watching you from now on."
Eight Years Earlier
    "Keep your hands relaxed. Don't pull on the reins." Papa's instructions floated across the paddock from where he sat on Midnight, Uncle Bertram's black hunter.
    We were staying at Carr Head again. About once a year Aunt Phyllis managed to persuade Papa to leave his patients in the care of another doctor, and take a brief holiday. To entertain us, she organised various excursions: this time we had enjoyed a boat trip on the river and a picnic on the moors. But today we were staying at home and it was the best day of all.
    When Aunt Phyllis had proposed riding for this morning, Mamma had tightened her lips. But she hadn't said anything.
    Later I'd heard her arguing with Papa: she thought it was too dangerous and I certainly mustn't ride, it was unladylike.
    But Papa had said, "Lou has as much spirit as her brothers, if not more. Why should she be thwarted?" Then he'd said, "Don't worry, they won't come to any harm."
    Mamma never seemed happy when we stayed at Carr Head and briefly I wondered why. But then I forgot all about Mamma as Lady, the dapple-grey pony, moved easily beneath me, and I relaxed into her walk, breathing in the warmth of her coat, the smell of leather, aware of Grace watching from the fence.
    I was always a little shy of her, but this holiday, even more so. She was nearly twelve now, only three years older than me, but in her dark green riding habit my cousin seemed elegant, grown-up. She had a new mysterious way of smiling, as if she
knew things I didn't. It made her look beautiful, like the princess in Hans Andersen's story about the wild swans.
    I sat up straighter, hoping she would notice me and approve of my seat.
    Behind her stretched the park, an expanse of grass, dotted with sheep and toffee-coloured cows. It was much nicer than the paddock, churned by hooves, but it didn't belong to Uncle Bertram.
    "Sit up straight, Tom. You look like a sack of coal. See how Lou is sitting beautifully upright."
    I flushed at Papa's praise but Tom scowled. He glanced across at Grace and I couldn't help sympathising—I'd hate to be shown up in front of my cousin.
    Tom was riding Chevalier, who belonged to Grace's brother, William. When I'd referred to the horse as "brown," Tom had explained, with that new superior manner he had nowadays, that Chevalier was a bay, because he had a black mane and tail. He was rather big for Tom. Grace had warned Tom to keep Chevalier away from the other horses because he could be aggressive and would bite if he got the chance.
    Tom seemed to be heeding her: he was keeping Chevalier several feet away from Lady but he hissed across the gap, "There's no need to look so pleased with yourself, Miss Smug-Boots. Just because you're Papa's pet."
    Mindful of Grace, for once I didn't retaliate, but I wished Tom would be more agreeable. These days he seemed so distant, as if now that he was almost thirteen and going away to school soon, I was beneath his notice.
    I sighed, thinking enviously of Tom's new box of mathematical instruments—the shiny compasses, and the folding ruler, that fitted so neatly into their red velvet grooves. They
seemed like keys to an exciting world, from which I was shut out.
    I sighed again and then put it out of my mind—it was a lovely day and I was determined to enjoy myself.
    Still keeping my back straight, I glanced down at the riding habit Grace had lent me. It was her old one, too big for me, but I felt very proud. In my borrowed gloves and hat, I almost looked like a proper horsewoman. I would never look like my cousin though.
    Every night before we went to sleep, she let me brush her long tawny hair; it was fine and smooth, unlike my dark tangle. Then we'd curl up together in