PROLOGUE
If she spun fast enough, she could make everything a blur.
She'd happily spend her days whirling like this until the blue of the sky and the green of the grass blended into one. Until she grew so dizzy that she had no choice but to shut her eyes and turn the now hazy world black. Another gasped giggle escaped her lips and the little girl swayed to a halt; her head tilted to the heavens. Standing in the still summer air, her turquoise skirts and cascade of copper curls were the bright against the pale summer roses.
The child was only still for a moment before her eyes flew open to seek out another game. Then came the familiar, shrill voice of her nurse; much too close for comfort. Startled, the girl hastily snatched in another breath, yanked her skirts away from her feet and bolted for her freedom.
She knew all too well what would follow capture: a sharp telling off from nurse, then a sharp telling off from Mother and an interminable round of prayers for penance before being sent back to the school room.
Fortunately, she was small enough and swift enough to avoid such reprimands.
The sharp thorns of the rosebushes clutched at her skin and hair. Soil smeared the hem of her dress as she veered off the garden path and through the rose bushes.
Little feet pumped furiously as she made her escape as best she could, weaving her way over sturdy grit paths and over soft grass. She skidded halt by an unfamiliar stone wall.
Shooting a few desperate glances around, the girl was finally forced to admit that she did not know where she was anymore. Really that was not her fault. Her father had so many estates with elaborate gardens like these. How could she possibly be expected to know her way around all of them?
Cheeks flushed with indignation and exertion; the girl reluctantly leaned against the fountain to catch her breath. Lost though she might be, her eyes were clear and dry as she scanned her surroundings. Young though she may be, tears were used sparingly. She knew her lady mother never cried.
Glancing down and lamenting that her nurse would be dismayed to find her skirts ruined, the little girl noted an unsightly red smudge on the ground by her foot. A darker red than wine, more a brownish black, in fact. And thicker. Candle wax, perhaps, as from her father's lordly seal?
A sharp caw sounded nearby, and the girl started at the sound.
The crow's ragged beak stretched open as it fluttered to the ground and out of sight. The little girl hated crows, for they were brazen, and noisy and the serving girls said they were bad luck. She skirted round the fountain and made to shoo it away.
She froze.
Her little heart started to patter, and for the first time in her short life she began to feel the chill of earnest, mortal fear.
For smeared across the ground before her were more streaks of what she now recognised as blood. At the end of the macabre trail, flung out from under the nearest trimmed hedge was a chalk pale hand, lying motionless against the fresh green of the shrubbery.
Triumphant, the crow lowered its head to peck the prone fingers.
The little girl started to scream.
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