Evie’s Aunt Dove said severely. Evie held her breath. “I’m sorry. You’ve been an angel. I’m just wondering if I’ve lost my nerve.” She darted a glance towards the ancient cheval glass, but Aunt Dove pricked her lightly with a pin. “Ouch!” Evie sucked her finger, glowering at her aunt. “I did tell you to hold still,” Aunt Dove countered with deceptive mildness. “And I told you earlier, no peeking until it’s finished.” Appealing to Aunt Dove to find her a suitable evening dress had been an inspired choice, but Evie had regretted it almost instantly. Dove was the most eccentric of her relatives. She had made a name for herself as a Victorian adventuress—in both senses of the word. She had travelled the world collecting stories and artefacts, and she had made a string of notorious conquests along the way, returning to England only when she was between lovers or patrons. “Well, we Pomeroy-Finches mightn’t have tuppence to rub together, but we do have style,”
