Page 12 of A Single Thread of Moonlight

Apart from her keen interest in her husband’s fiery afterlife, Mrs T was a gentle soul and a terrible cook. Various grey, lumpy meals were included in my rent, though I tried to eat there as little as possible, and I frequently snuck in greasy packets of chips wrapped in newspaper for Mrs Turnbull’s twelve-year-old son, Tommy – a gesture which had earned me a level of chivalrous loyalty one might typically associate with a medieval knight.

My room was clean, but impersonal. I didn’t spend a huge amount of time there, so I had never seen the need to change things much. The floorboards were bare, and a pair of pale blue cotton curtains hung at the window. There was a small bed with an iron frame and a thin mattress, a large cupboard, a battered but comfortable old armchair in front of the fireplace, and a shelf containing a stack of fashion magazines and novels from the circulating library.

As of today, there was also a long, slightly tarnished mirror that I had borrowed from Mrs Turnbull, and I stood in front of it now, moving from side to side, the low light from the oil lamp catching on the fine gold threads in my skirts.

I had washed my hair and braided it into an intricate crown on top of my head, several loose curls resting against my shoulders, which were left bare thanks to the cut of the dress. There had been a pair of gold silk slippers in the box underneath the dress; these were slightly too big, so I had stitched ribbons into the sides and tied them tightly. I held the lace mask at my side, the silk lining cool in my too-warm hand.

I suppose that the girl in the mirror was Iris Scott-Holland. The girl I could have been. In another world it would have been my name on the invitation. My shoes, like everything else, would fit perfectly. I would fit perfectly.

But tonight I wasn’t Iris Scott-Holland. I wasn’t even Iris Grey.

No; tonight I would be Serena Fox.

For the thousandth time I wondered who she was, wondered why she had left me a dress and her invitation. I wondered if I had ever met her. I imagined her, auburn-haired with a cupid’s-bow mouth and dancing sable-brown eyes. Was this some sort of prank? But why would anyone do such a thing?

I had hesitated only briefly before accepting the invitation. It was too good a chance to pass up. And I had to admit that there was a part of me that thrilled at the mystery, that loved the idea of bluffing my way into the social event of the season. I could feel my heart beating harder at the thought of such an adventure, and I watched in the mirror as the colour rose in my cheeks.

The opportunity to disrupt Helena’s careful plans had literally fallen at my feet; how could I possibly ignore it? I couldn’t. I was going to grasp it with both hands.

My wish had come true. Perhaps Serena Fox was my fairy godmother. It certainly felt as though I had willed the whole thing into being.

Without any further hesitation I held the mask against my face and tied the ribbons behind my head. I looked like a stranger. Even my eyes were different, a darker blue, dancing with secrets. I smiled, and the girl in the mirror smiled back – a smile like the sharp edge of a knife.

“Coo! Iris!” Mrs Turnbull exclaimed when I made my way downstairs. “You look like a fine lady! I can’t believe you’re going to such a fancy party.”

Knowing that I would have difficulty sneaking out of the house and back in an enormous ball gown, I had hastily constructed a story about modelling dresses at a society do, which Mrs Turnbull had thankfully accepted without question.

“I’ve sent Tommy to hail a cab for you,” she said, her fingers half-reaching towards my skirts as though she longed to touch them but didn’t quite dare.

“Thank you,” I replied. “I shouldn’t be back too late.”

“I’ll leave the door on the latch,” she said. “But you know you can always shout up for Tommy. You go and have fun, it’s nice to see you enjoying yourself for a change, and you look pretty as a picture.”

I smiled at her, touched by the genuine pleasure in her voice. She didn’t need to know that I wasn’t going to this party for fun.

If the driver of the hansom cab was surprised to be picking up a woman in a mask and a spectacular ball gown from an unassuming boarding house, then he showed no sign of it. I suppose London cab drivers have seen it all. Once I had clambered into the cab and adjusted my skirts – which rather overpowered the cramped interior – he set the horse going with a snap of his whip.

The carriage rattled over cobblestones, the world outside the window a silver-streaked blur of fog broken only by the brief flicker of the gas lamps. I clasped my hands in my lap, forcing myself to breathe deeply, to remain calm and steady. I was ready for this. I had been born to it, after all.

It was half-past nine when I arrived. The rest of the guests would have enjoyed sumptuous dinner parties across town before making their way towards the party. I had made do with a bowl of Mrs Turnbull’s beef stew. At least, I think it was beef.

My cab joined the long queue of carriages drawing up to the house. Already I could feel the festival air of excitement that filled the street. There were squeals and laughter, and the sound of people calling to one another from the windows of their coaches.

I asked the driver to set me down. I would continue up to the house on foot. It might be unusual, but I thought Serena Fox was unlikely to pull up in a common hansom cab. Once I got close to the house itself, I could join the eager throng, and hopefully no one would look too closely at where I had come from.

I checked that my mask was firmly in place and picked up the silk train of my dress, looping it carefully over my arm so that it wouldn’t drag on the ground. It did not technically belong to me, after all.

I reached the gates that I had stood in front of only yesterday, my invitation clutched in my hand. At the top of the gate the Devonshire family crest gleamed gold, a trio of stags and the words: Cavendo Tutus. Safety through caution. A breath of nervous laughter escaped me. Well, that was a neat joke.

There were two men in elegant black uniforms stitched with silver thread, who were guiding coaches through. One of them blinked as I approached on foot.

“My invitation,” I said, in my most blue-blooded voice. I craned my neck past them and gave a wave, as though I had just seen someone I knew inside.

The man took the invitation from me and examined it. I could see his eyes taking in the extravagance of my gown, the aristocratic tilt of my chin. I forced myself to stand straight under his scrutiny, to school my face so that it only betrayed a slight boredom at being held up.

“Very good, madam,” the man rumbled in a deep voice. “Enjoy your evening.”

“Thank you.” I flashed him a smile, and sailed past him, joining the press of bodies making their way up the drive and through the enormous front doors. Despite the cool of the evening, the air was feverish, heat coming off the crowd in waves, as if the growing excitement was burning inside everyone.