Free Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand by Susan Green

myself,” she said, guiding me onto the seat in front of the dressing table. She smiled at our joint reflections in the mirror and began undoing my plaits. “I wonder what you would look like with a side parting?” She picked up my brush and comb. “Do you mind?”
    I’d rather my hair was left as it was, but it seemed rude to say so.
    She produced a few more silk rosebuds and some narrow pink ribbon. With quick, clever fingers she pulled my hair back from my face and wove the ribbon through my hair into a complicated braid. A flower here and there, and she stood back to admire her handiwork.
    “One last touch.”
    My reflection looked back at me with a quizzical expression. Anyone with half an eye could have seen that the flowers didn’t suit me. Too fiddly, too fussy. But it wasn’t just good manners that made me smile and thank Helen. It was what she said as she twisted the last rosebud into my hair.
    “I often think … how lovely it would have been,” she whispered, almost to herself, “… to have a daughter.”

    As well as a nanny goat, the Petrovs kept a horse. She was a big brown mare called Beauty and she pulled the Petrovs’ phaeton. It was a roomy four-wheeler with slat sides and two seats facing each other. It could carry four people but we wouldn’t all fit in, so rather than do two trips, we girls volunteered to walk to the Levinys’ house with Harold while Helen and Papa went in style. Mr Petrov wasn’t going. According to Helen, he rarely went out in the evenings any more. Helen herself took the reins, and I was surprised. I’d never seen a woman drive before.
    As she walked, Connie hummed to herself and I knew she was mentally rehearsing her music. Poppy held Connie’s hand and trotted along beside her. Harold and I would have to make conversation, or else walk in silence. Which was it going to be? I wasn’t often shy, but I’d never known any boys before. What could we talk about?
    As it turned out, conversation was not a problem. Harold was curious. He was much more curious than Judith would consider polite. (Judith had rather strict ideas about etiquette.) He didn’t seem to know that one shouldn’t ask personal questions of a new acquaintance.
    “You and your father – I’ve noticed you have different surnames,” he said. “How did that come about?”
    “It’s rather a long story,” I said. “I was adopted.”
    “Oh, so Mr Savinov is not your real father?”
    “Yes, he is. Ma and Pa – their names were Thomas and Elizabeth Sparks – took me in when I was only a few months old.” I paused. How could I tell such a complicated tale in a few brief sentences? “It was meant to be temporary but Mama died in a fire and my father was told that I’d died too.”
    Harold’s eyes were on my face. “Go on,” he said.
    “Ma and Pa died of typhoid fever when I was eleven. My aunt and uncle couldn’t keep me, so I was apprenticed to a milliner.” I paused again. “I lost my job and the Plush family took me in. Professor Plush and my father were friends and … well, eventually we discovered the truth.”
    His face registered surprise. Well, the truth
was
surprising. Here in the colonies, people knew me only as rich Mr Savinov’s daughter, but my real story was almost incredible. I was a bit choked up and changed the subject.
    “Your aunt seems much happier now that you are here.”
    “Yes,” he said. “And you girls have cheered her up. Especially Poppy. Auntie Nell loves children.”
    “Even schoolboys who don’t behave themselves,” I said demurely.
    “And sharp-eyed young ladies.”
    “Sharp-eyed?” I looked at him sideways. Was that a compliment – or not? “What do you mean?”
    “Oh, I get the impression that you are a very noticing sort of person.”
    “That makes two of us, then.”
    For some reason, we both found that very funny. We were still laughing when we arrived at the Levinys’.

11
SOIRÉE MUSICALE
    Mrs Leviny stood greeting the guests just