Page 16 of Under a Dancing Star

“Yes, yes.” Hero waves a hand. “But we didn’t know that at the time, did we? It looked like you’d been at the scene of some horrific murder; your dress was covered in blood, your hands were covered in blood…”

“Paint,” I interject again.

“And that,” Hero continues, ignoring me and throwing her hands dramatically in the air as though warding off evil spirits, “was when I cried out, Dearest cousin, what horrors have you witnessed? What on God’s earth has befallen you?”

“You certainly did not,” I protest.

Hero glares at me. “And then, Signora Giuliani screamed and collapsed into a swoon.”

“That part is true,” I admit.

It is evening, and we are sitting in the garden sipping on cool, pale yellow drinks that taste like sugar and sunlight and lemons. Someone has wheeled out a gramophone and a crackling jazz record plays softly in the background. It is still warm, but the air has cooled a little. The sky is streaked with dramatic swathes of gold and burnt orange as the sun gathers in its last rays for its final, spectacular display of the day – like a diva bowing offstage in a blaze of glory.

In the time since I emerged from the bushes and gave Hero’s tutor the shock of her life, I have washed and changed into a pale blue dress scattered with a pattern of white flowers and closed at the side with small, cloth-covered buttons. The dress is one of my newer ones (though it is still faded and worn, it is less faded and worn than most of the others) and it makes me feel more grown up.

I have worn it as armour because I have never been to dinner with a group of artists before, and I am not sure what to expect. My hair is still damp from the bath and screwed up in a knot on top of my head, and I noticed in the mirror that a little sunburn has given my cheeks and the bridge of my nose a slightly pink glow.

Ben and the other artists are yet to arrive, but Leo and Filomena are here. As Hero tells her story with relish, Leo fusses over his fiancée, wrapping a fringed and brightly patterned silk shawl around her shoulders and kissing the corner of her mouth – the kind of affectionate gestures that would never be seen in public at Langton Hall.

I watch Filomena now as she smiles and listens to Hero chatter on. The relationship between them is puzzling. They are friendly with each other, warm even, but on Filomena’s side I sense the same slight reserve that she has with my uncle – as though she’s holding Hero a little at a distance.

“It sounds completely thrilling,” Filomena says.

“You’d be less pleased if you were the one who had to calm Signora Giuliani down and convince her that she should stay in this – I believe she used the term den of vipers, but I could be mistranslating.”

Uncle Leo’s tone is light, teasing. At home, this sort of scrape would have been met with tears and recriminations; here everyone seems to have found the slightly abridged version of events quite funny.

“Bah!” Filomena exclaims. “That woman could use some more thrills in her life.”

Leo makes a funny, snorting sound at that.

“Hello,” a voice calls and I turn in my seat to see two figures moving towards us. One is a boy, lean, dark-haired and dark-eyed, who walks with a swagger. He is perhaps a year or two older than me, and as he steps forward to shake my hand he gives me a slightly crooked and perfectly charming smile. I notice that he has a small beauty mark at the corner of his mouth.

“Ah, Signora Bea,” he says and his voice is warm and low, with a subtle Germanic accent. “I am delighted to meet you at last. Hero has told us so much about you.” He nods to Hero who is gazing at him with worship writ large in her eyes.

“I am Klaus,” he continues and I realize he is still holding my hand. He lets go of it, but slowly, as though he regrets having to do so. It’s a practised move, I think, as smooth as a beeswax-polished floor. “And this” – Klaus gestures to the girl beside him – “is Ursula, my sister.”

Ursula nods coolly. She is beautiful in an intimidating sort of way, with her brother’s dark hair and dark eyes and a wide, sulky mouth painted with a slash of red lipstick. She is several inches shorter than me and slim as a reed. Her hair is cut into a short, severe bob, the strands at the front tickling against her high cheekbones. Her emerald-green dress clings lovingly to her body, making me feel woefully unsophisticated.

Klaus accepts a drink from my uncle and pulls up the chair beside mine, shuffling it so that we are sitting close enough that our arms brush lightly against each other. Ursula drops into a seat beside Filomena.

“So,” Klaus says, “you are from England. Is it true that all those English country houses are haunted?”

I look into his laughing eyes and find myself telling him stories about the hen-hearted ghosts at Langton who seem only to appear in front of the most susceptible ninnies, and the scrapes that Eustace the dog has been in.

Hero then demands a retelling of the toad story and I follow this up with an admission of several other well-played pranks.

As we are talking, several other people drift over and join the party: two older men who sit in a corner, arguing in low tones and making dramatic gestures at one another; a willowy blonde girl with an air of extreme cultivated fragility; and a woman about the same age as Filomena with bronze skin and her hair tucked into a red turban, who carries herself with a liquid grace. More artists who have stumbled into the haven created by Filomena.

My audience are appreciative, laughing and egging me on. Filomena tells us about the tricks she used to play on her governess and I can almost see Hero making notes. Instead of being horrified, my uncle laughs the loudest of anyone. Only Ursula seems largely unmoved, her dark eyes watchful as she leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. Occasionally a half smile will tug at her lips but for the most part she seems almost bored.

“Your turn,” I say to Klaus. “Now you know all about me.”

“Klaus and Ursula are Austrian,” Leo says as he gets to his feet to pour out more drinks. “Filomena met them on her last visit to Vienna.”

“Oh.” I sit up straight. “I would love to visit Vienna.”

“You must,” Klaus says. “I shall be your guide. We will go to the Prater and I will win you a goldfish.”