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‘To steal her secret from her? To consign her to the fate I’m trying to escape?’

The branches of the trees rustle in laughter.

Are you capable of it? his mother asks him. I chose her because I knew you would be drawn to her, as moths are drawn to fire, as Leander was drawn to the lantern. You ought to be grateful, my son. I have done you a kindness. Either you will win your freedom or you will become her saviour. If you promise to stay with me in this Château I have built for us, I shall offer Genevieve de Vienne her heart’s desire, and you will know your sacrifice is not in vain.

Leander doesn’t reply. He stares out into the mist that is slowly gathering at the pond’s edge, pressing his fingers into the Château’s soil.

Fog has fallen over the morning, a faint mist that veils the mountains like a bride. Even the labyrinth is invisible from Genevieve’s balcony; she can see only a few metres ahead of her before the gardens are obscured.

‘The white muslin today, mademoiselle?’ one of the maidservants asks her.

Genevieve turns away from the balcony doors. ‘Yes, certainly.’

She is laced into a high-waisted under-bust corset by two of the maidservants while the third curls her hair, then dressed in a white gown with a low, rounded neckline and fitted sleeves, quite translucent, which is secured around her waist with a plum-coloured sash. The effect is simple but lovely, although the skirts hug her legs a little too closely, and the bodice is really too sheer for propriety’s sake.

‘Might I not have a hoop?’ she asks the maidservants. ‘Or a corset to cover my bust?’

They give her a withering look. ‘That is not the style,’ says one. ‘It is a Greek chemise, mademoiselle,’ says another.

Genevieve refuses to leave the room until they have changed her corset, although a hoop is an apparent impossibility. At least her satin slippers are easier to walk in than yesterday’s mules.

Breakfast has been set up in another wing of the Château. Genevieve makes her way through the gardens. She is accustomed to being outside in the mornings, a habit she acquired in England. Her grandfather is an early riser, and so they often sit together in the bracing cold of dawn, shawls wrapped around themselves, sharing cups of strong tea and scones still warm from the oven.

The air at the Château Reverie—mountain air—is of a crueller sort than in England. It pricks at Genevieve’s lungs like needles and makes her eyes well with tears. But the beauty of the gardens, tinted now a dim grey pink by the sun’s faded revival, surpasses anything she has ever seen at home. Standing on a set of marble steps facing the mountain’s sheerest drop, Genevieve sees a figure in a navy coat looking out upon the valley. She approaches him, then wonders if she ought to turn away; there is a private serenity in Leander’s expression as he stares into the distance. The mountains have been reduced to blurred shapes and shadows, all pale as sea-foam, coming in and out of view like whales rising from water to breathe.

‘Genevieve,’ he says, without turning to look at her.

‘Forgive me for disturbing you.’

His eyes shift towards her—in this light they are near the colour of the mist, limpid as glass. ‘You aren’t disturbing me.’

Will they speak of it? Last night: his lips, his hands, the breath they shared. The delirium of it, the wanting. Genevieve wants it again, of course she does. But there is a fragile truce between them here, cloaked in the mist together. She does not want to ruin it.

‘It is beautiful here,’ she says.

‘Yes,’ he murmurs, looking at her.

Her eyes trace the lines of his face. He is imperious as a marble bust, all strong features and an odd sense of distance, as if she is looking at an image of someone from a long time ago. She recalls him with his mandolin the night before, playing to the birds. She wonders if he wishes her to ask about it; she wonders if it happened at all, or if perhaps she dreamt it. Who are you, Leander Sterne? she wants to ask. Do you even know yourself?

But he will not answer her. He never does. So she says nothing. She closes her eyes and raises her face to the mist, feels the cool damp settle over her skin.

When she opens her eyes again, he is still watching her. There is pain in his eyes. The peace is gone. Genevieve does not know what she did to destroy it.

‘We should go to breakfast,’ he tells her. ‘The Château is waiting.’

In the conservatory, the glass of the walls and ceilings is perfectly clear. The mist crawls up the panes as if it is desperate to enter, wisps probing at the seams of the windows, fog pooling in the dewy grass.

The food is laid on a sideboard for guests to serve themselves. It is similarly extraordinary fare as there had been at dinner. On a porcelain plate painted with a smiling tiger, Genevieve lays a trio of tiny fried eggs, each with a yolk no bigger than her fingernail; a wedge of fruit that resembles an apple tinted vibrant pink; and a roll of dark bread scored with a letter in a language she does not recognise.

Apart from Genevieve and Leander, few other guests are present. There is merely a glowering Kurki in the corner and Missah by himself at the other end of the table, poring over a book. While Leander lingers at the sideboard, Genevieve sits with Missah to exchange pleasantries. She pokes at her eggs with her fork, trying to will herself to take a bite.

‘You are not hungry, mademoiselle?’ Missah asks her.

‘Not particularly.’

‘That is a shame. The food here is bizarre but delicious.’

‘Are you certain it is safe?’