A day or two ago, Margot would have said it was her imagination only that made the embroidery glow like the moon, when Sylvaine put the coat on.
Sylvaine rolled her shoulders and shuddered, suffering under some affliction Margot could not recognise. ‘Ah, well,’ she said softly. ‘After all, then, what choice is there?’ On which words she turned resolutely to the staircase and ascended it, calling to Margot, ‘I take it back, Margot. Sing as much as you like. Wear the ribbon. We are out of our depth entirely, but what of that? There is no knowing where any of this will go, unless we go along with it. And who knows what might come of it, if we do?’
‘Perhaps something bad,’ said Margot dreamily, draping the ribbon over her left wrist and tying it there. She noticed, distantly, that the box wa
