Free The Lace Balcony by Johanna Nicholls

between truth and fantasy had become increasingly blurred. At first it was fun to play the ‘courtesan game’. Severin masterminded her education in a relentless schedule of lessons: singing, pianoforte, deportment and dance, a language teacher for the pronunciation of the French, Italian and German lyrics she sang at night – and, most importantly of all, the elimination of all trace of her lower-class London accent. He was generous about every facet of her education yet denied her the one she most wanted – literacy. His oft-repeated words were imprinted on her mind, ‘You have no head for book learning, Vianna. Trust me. We must trade on your beauty.’
    Her sewing completed, Vianna turned to the diary in which she had charted her progress at Severin House. In place of words, her sketches were visual keys, like milestones in the changing pattern of her life.
    Her thumbnail sketches of Daisy bore proof of earlier tearstains. For the first six months at Severin House an assigned nursery maid had cared for the child, freeing Vianna to perform, rehearse and study. Following the Colony’s outbreak of cholera, Severin had removed the child to an expensive rural boarding school, for the sake of her health and also to shield her from the unsavoury aspects of their luxurious lifestyle – members’ drunken fights and duels.
    Vianna ran her finger tenderly over the sketch of Daisy, the last time she had seen her wide-eyed face, peering from the carriage window.
    She did not doubt Severin’s generosity. He pays a fortune to give her a fine education amongst children of the Quality. But although he reads me the monthly reports of her progress, he blocks my everyattempt to visit her, saying it’s in Daisy’s best interests – until we make our fortune.
    The diary contained samples of materials from the glamorous gowns that Severin ordered for her debut as a singer and a sketch of the miniature theatre where she performed six nights a week for Severin’s clientele. This showed Guido accompanying her on pianoforte, his coat tails flying, and caricatures of leering faces – gentlemen by name until drunk, when they were no better than any convict with grog in his belly.
    She was startled by the contrast between early and later sketches of Severin, by how her vision of him had altered, as if reflected in an old mirror so dimpled and pockmarked that the image was distorted – still handsome, yet just a touch sinister.
    She was proud of being a key attraction to the Exclusives, the powerful faction in colonial society whose privileged lifestyle was sustained by convict labour. Yet despite the fact the gamblers amongst them caused a small fortune to pass across the gaming tables each night, Vianna felt a growing sense of unease. Just where is the courtesan game leading?
    The rain, beating like a military tattoo on the window, gave her a shiver of dread. A goose just walked over my grave. Moments later a large black magpie crashed against the window, splintering the glass. Its bloody neck was half severed in the jagged hole, left hanging as if from a noose, screeching until it gave up the ghost – a horrible reminder of the death throes of her father and that young lad Will Eden.
    Vianna’s screams drew Severin from his chambers down the hall, hastily wrapped in a silken robe, unshaven, his hooded eyes swollen from lack of sleep.
    â€˜What the hell’s the matter? Oh that – it’s only a bird.’
    â€˜The death of a bird is a bad omen, Severin.’
    â€˜Sheer superstition. Calm down. Blewitt will have the pane replaced.’ He placed his arm around her shoulders. ‘Wait here. I have a surprise for you.’
    Left alone, Vianna’s eyes were drawn back to the dead bird’s ghastly grimace. She felt sure it was a harbinger of death.
    She was suddenly aware of the figure in the doorway. Who on earth is this?
    The girl differed markedly from the