Mother lowered herself gracefully into her seat. “I should have brought my own cushion,” she said, a trifle too loudly. “I can’t think who might have used this one before me.”

The truth was, she loved the blue silk and would hide the cushion under her crinolines to keep, first chance she got. The warning whistle pierced through the steam and the train lurched into movement, jostling us. We left the station and the red roofs of the village, plunging once more into the green countryside. The sun glinted off a meandering creek as it set. There was something lulling about the motion of the train, once you got used to it.

I leaned my temple against the window, content to decipher shapes in the lilac-colored clouds above us and then the stars when it grew too dark to see anything else. We barely saw the stars in London, because of the coal smoke. We barely even saw the sky.

As we approached the village, the glass grew oddly misty, then abruptly bloomed with frost.

It was nearly the end of summer and far too warm for frost of any kind.

I glanced about but no one else seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary. Mother was resting her eyes so she wouldn’t arrive with lines on her face. Most of the men were reading newspapers; one snored loudly. Two ladies bent over their embroidery hoops. Everyone else appeared to be dozing.

The frost traveled slowly, thickly. The lamplight made it look like lace, but it burned to touch. I snatched my fingers away, sitting up straight, my heart thumping loud and slow under my corset bones. Behind the thin ice, where the glass was still glass, the hills and hamlets that ought to have been dark glowed softly. It wasn’t torchlight I was seeing, or candles in cottage windows. We weren’t that near to the village yet; it was still all fields and oak groves. Otherwise I might have taken the lights for hundreds of candles, even though they flickered with a faintly blue glow, ghostly and cold.

The train cut through swarms of them, like giant fireflies, but not a single passenger noticed. I was the only one gaping at the scene outside. I’d read about corpse candles before, but I’d thought them idle superstition. A quaint folk tradition.

I did not credit them to be the terrifying unearthly light that now fell on my face and made me feel wretched and ill and shiver as if I were up to my neck in a snowdrift. I understood the warning not to follow will-o-the-wisps, to cast your eyes downward when you walked at night.

I thought I saw flashes of pale faces, pale hands, pale teeth.

And then, a face was suddenly there on the other side of the window.

Long translucent hair drifted as if the girl were underwater. There was a cloying scent in the still air, like lilies wilting by green water. She dripped as if it were raining, floated as if she were made of dandelion fluff. She wore a white dress layered with flounces.

Her eyes met mine, cold as starlight. I jerked backward, yelping.

My mother opened one eye crossly. “Violet, really.”

The girl faded, tattering like mist under a spear of strong sunlight.

The ghostly candles guttered and went out.

CHAPTER 2

It was past dinner by the time we were handed up into Lord Jasper’s carriage, which he’d been kind enough to send for us; otherwise we’d have been crammed into a public coach next to some sweaty man who smelled like ham. Lord Jasper’s coach had plush, velvet-covered, cushioned seats and gleaming lacquered wood. The windows even had little drapes. We didn’t speak much as the carriage rolled down the narrow streets and onto the open lanes. The hills spread out all around, the road edged with wildflowers and tangled blackberry hedges. I wondered if highwaymen still roamed these parts, and if one might stop us, face covered with a black mask. He would demand our jewelry, but one look at my mother and he would fall in love and carry her away on his horse.

Or not.

The carriage rattled over the badly pockmarked road. After so much traveling my bottom was beginning to grow numb, and I was craving fresh air and sunlight. I envied Colin up on top with the driver, the warm summer wind on his face. I wished I could read one of my novels, but it always made my stomach uncertain to read in a moving vehicle.

I’d never been to a lord’s country house before, of course, just as I’d never been on a train. I could imagine the wide gardens, the fat roses, and the thick, dark woods. Finally the lane curved gently and we were afforded our first view of Rosefield, Lord Jasper’s country house. It sat in a veritable moat of roses, all red and white and scattering petals onto the grass, lit with torches in the gardens and along the lane and the walkways. The house itself was mostly pale gray stone with towers and turrets and a small section off to one side that clearly dated back to Queen Elizabeth’s time.

Mother looked distinctly satisfied as she surveyed our surroundings. She was already imagining herself as the lady of the manor. Lord Jasper might be a widower, but he showed no particular affection or matrimonial intent toward her, which was a source of bewildered frustration for her. He truly seemed to honor her gifts, such as they were. It made me sad to think about it.

I turned my attention back to the tall, handsome footman who was waiting patiently for me to take his hand and descend out of the plush carriage. Colin looked at me blandly. I knew perfectly well that he was remembering last spring when I stumbled out of a hired hack and sprawled, rather spectacularly, into a muddy puddle. Rosefield’s lane was dry and immaculately kept. No rain would dare fall on the first day of such a summer fete.

Rosefield’s housekeeper, Mrs. Harris, was a dour-looking woman, tall and thin as a lamppost. Her gray hair was scraped mercilessly off her face. Even my mother’s loveliest smile only engendered a narrowing of the eyes.