All the puppets are filled with phials.
Less than a minute later, which feels like an eternity, Finn is bounding up the stairs, phone in hand.
‘I’m on the phone with a client, what the hell do you—”
Willa sits with her legs crossed, her arms raised at her sides, palms up, with a phial in each hand, like a Tibetan monk chanting for world peace.
Finn drops his phone.
They look at each other, astonished, for an achingly long moment until Finn Fowler erupts with an enormous, strange cacophony of sounds.
‘I don’t believe it,’ he manages to say.
Willa never expected this day to arrive, and now that it has she is surprised that she feels quite calm.
‘Phone Rafe. Don’t let on or he may have an accident trying to get here, but tell him to come at once,’ she says.
‘Yes, yes. Quite fucking right.’ He does an odd little jig.
They have very little time. The plan they have honed over the years, turning it over and over in their heads, is now unbelievably in action. The chore of replacing all the phials with a liquid that perfectly resembles the authentic liquid is painstaking. Years ago, Mockett recreated the exact colour, with a tinge of iridescence. His experiments weren’t all for naught.
When Rafe arrives he is of no use to them. He’s shaking so badly he can’t be trusted with the delicate glass. Finn suggests that he keeps watch for Clovis to return. She shouldn’t be back for at least a couple of hours, but it has long been her habit to return early to try to catch them off guard.
Now Willa works quickly to put the puppets back together. Placing them exactly as they were is of monumental importance, she tilts the fox’s head perfectly.
‘Rafe, take the phials to your studio. Can you find a good hiding place where they’ll be safe?’
‘Of course. Don’t worry.’
‘Okay. Time to be brave, Willa,’ Finn says.
‘I feel I’m ready. I really do. Will you call Mockett?’ she asks.
‘Yes, exactly right. Will do. And of course Benedikt, I’ll write to him immediately and post it in his box when Clovis is next out of the house. Rafe, you should go now. Your big evening is nearly here. Are you ready?’
‘I am. I’m nervous, but I’m ready.’
‘Good. I’m damned sorry that London won’t see your name.’
‘I’m happy lurking around in the shadows. Honestly. It’s where I’m most comfortable.’
‘I wish that Jonesy could be here now,’ Willa says.
‘We all do. Well done, Willa. I’m sorry I bit your head off,’ Finn tells her.
‘Never mind, I’m … I’m so happy!’
Then Rafe and Finn witness something remarkably rare – Willa’s face brightening the room with her smile.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
‘Goodness. How smart you both look,’ Ava tells them.
The sisters are without disguises tonight. Constance sports a deep lavender, velvet trouser-suit. Her hair, which she wears long and loose, shines strikingly white. Slight touches of make-up enhance her refined features.
Verity’s lapis-blue, pleated sheath dress accentuates her willowy figure. Her hair is short again, lending her an androgynous look that serves her needs.
‘If your mother could see what a beautiful, sophisticated woman you have become. Your father spoke of her often and shared his photos of her. You have her colouring; the same dark hair and sea-green eyes.’ Constance says to Ava.
‘Sometimes I can’t remember the details of her face.’
‘You were so young,’ Constance tells her. ‘I wish we could have met her. It’s difficult, not meeting the rest of the family. But then we are grateful for you, Ava, and all of your family who have helped us.’
‘Our family,’ Ava corrects her. ‘You are our family.’
In the warmth of the car a chatty driver who won’t take the strong hint that they wish to watch the snow flurries in silence, finally turns his attention to his satnav.
‘I actually don’t know why we’re doing this,’ Constance muses. ‘You know I’ve not been back to Millbank since …’ she glances at the driver, ‘well, not for a long time.’
‘I forgot about tonight. I can think of nothing but our meeting with Elísabet.’ Verity says.
‘I’m just happy to be away from chambers. London is beautiful when it snows,’ Ava says.
‘London is always beautiful,’ the sisters echo.
The last of the day’s visitors are making their way out the doors of the museum while others are just arriving for one of the Tate’s special evenings of free events. Constance pauses on the steps that lead to the sprawling, historic building with its cold and stony Edwardian character, conscious that a temple to art replaced the site of abject misery.
The women enter the glazed door to the vestibule where a striking spiral staircase sweeps down from the floor below them in the centre of the rotunda. There, standing alone, is Willa Robinson.
‘I promised myself I wouldn’t cry,’ she says to the women.
The sisters take her hands, a sensation with which Willa is not entirely comfortable, but she resists drawing away.
‘Dear, dear girl,’ Constance says. ‘How very well you look.’
‘Willa Robinson.’ Verity takes a step back. ‘Astonishing.’
‘Please, let me introduce you to our niece, Ava Fitzgerald.’ Constance turns to the young woman standing beside her.
‘Pleasure to meet you. Are you … changed as well?’ Willa asks.
‘No, no I’m not. It’s lovely to meet you.’ Ava struggles to keep her voice even. A shock courses through her at the girl’s youthful appearance. And then another, at the depth behind the eyes in her young face.
There is so much to say, but now is not the time.
‘I’ve invited you here for a very special exhibition.’ Willa is exceptionally composed. ‘It’s not open to the public yet. It’s sort of a preview before the preview. Please, follow me.’
Willa leads them through the grand corridor on the main floor and then stops at one of the exhibition rooms. On the side of the doorway a simple sign reads: THE SISTER SAINTS.
A thick, pink light permeates the room like the thickest Limehouse fog.
‘Come.’ Willa motions to the three women.
They follow her into the