Page 11 of A Single Thread of Moonlight

The rest of the day passed in a blur. By the time the clock struck nine at night, my fingers were stiff and aching, but the enormous pile of work in front of me had decreased dramatically.

Annie left for the evening and so I allowed my eyes to drift, as they had every few minutes, over to the box in the corner. Jumping down from my stool, I rolled my shoulders, hearing the bones crack in my back.

I picked up the box again. It was heavy. I placed it on the workbench and tugged at the knotted string.

I don’t know what I had been expecting, but my breath caught when I lifted the lid. Nestled inside was the green dress I had modelled yesterday. On top of the dress was a mask made of fine gold lace with a gold silk ribbon. There was also a gilded invitation, printed on stiff white card. In swirling calligraphy, it read,

The Duke and Duchess of Devonshire

Cordially invite

Miss Serena Fox

To a masked ball at Devonshire House On the evening of twenty-eighth of October Given in honour of His Royal Highness Prince Stefan Franz Albert Karl August of Saxe-Illyris

Guests are requested to arrive,

masked, from nine o'clock.

Carriages at dawn.

My fingers brushed across the fine print, the ink dark and heavy, pressed firmly into the paper. The scrolling gold design around the edges framed the Devonshire family crest.

With a gown and an invitation, I’d be able to walk right through the front door to the party. But who could possibly know that I needed to be there? Who was Serena Fox? I wracked my brain. Had I met her? Was she a customer, perhaps? I was sure I had never heard the name before.

I shivered. I knew that life was no fairy tale, but it felt as though my fairy godmother was about to appear and declare that I should go to the ball after all.

I frowned at the dress, my fingers running absently over the green silk. Who had bought this dress and left it for me? That, I suppose, was one mystery I might be able to solve.

I put the lid back on the box and made my way through to the shop. Madame Solange was still there, sorting through an enormous display of ribbons. It was one of the things that made the long hours bearable – no one worked harder than Madame herself. She was as tough as they came.

“Still here?” she asked, without turning. “I thought you’d have pushed off with Annie.”

“I just wanted to finish the Scott-Holland order so that it can go over first thing in the morning.”

She nodded, pleased.

“I can’t find the green lamé,” I said hesitantly. “Did someone buy it?”

“The green … oh, yes, this morning. A lady’s maid arrived and asked for it. It was strange actually, because she didn’t want any alterations, said it was fine as it was … though how she could know that I’ve got no idea. Still” – she heaved herself to her feet – “I wasn’t about to argue. Easiest sale I’ve ever made, didn’t even quibble on the price. Must be another one of these fine ladies desperate for something to wear to tomorrow’s ball.”

“Do you know who it was that bought it?” I asked.

“The name will be in the accounts book.” Madame waved a hand dismissively, her interest already waning. “But I don’t think it was anyone I recognized.”

I ducked behind the counter to pull out the heavy accounts book, bound in soft black leather. I flicked through the pages until I came to the right one and ran my finger down the list. There it was: one green lamé silk evening gown, paid in full.

And the name on the account was Serena Fox.

CHAPTER SIX

The next evening, I stood in my room, staring at the mirror.

The girl in the expensive dress staring back at me could not have looked more out of place in my dingy rented rooms.

I lived in a shabby but respectable boarding house about two miles from the shop. It was owned by my landlady, Mrs Turnbull, and I had been there for almost two years now. Before that I had lived in a small box room above Madame Solange’s shop along with Annie. Compared to that, my rooms here were positively palatial, and I loved the feeling of independence it gave me to live alone, and to pay my own way out of my wages. I had worked hard for that feeling.

Mrs Turnbull was a widow in her forties who seemed perfectly happy to have seen the back of her husband. She liked to talk about the various torments her vicar assured her were going on in Hell and how Mr Turnbull would be enjoying all of them. I had the impression he had treated her very badly, and so I did not at all mind hearing about Mr Turnbull being strapped to a burning wheel or swimming through a river of fire and blood.