'Of course: it is more than enough.'

'Clearly it is not. You are ungrateful. Unnatural. I do not see you casting away your new dresses and declaring, "Oh, please give me no presents; give me no pretty things."'

He clapped his hand over the place on his waistcoat beneath which his heart beat and rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

'Mr Arroner, I did not mean to sound ungrateful. I am most grateful.'

'Are you? Are you indeed? It seems to be doubtful. Do I ask a lot of you? Do I desire you to sweat in a factory, or work your fingers to ribbons with a needle?'

He thumped at his chest as though trying to dislodge a piece of gristle stuck in his gullet.

'No, sir, you do not.'

'No, indeed I do not. Did I not rescue you from just such an estate?'

'You did. You did.'

'I am hurt, Mrs Arroner.'

He placed his free hand over his eyes, and I took the opportunity to lay my own small hand upon his elbow.

'Please do not turn from me, dear husband. It wounds me so.'

'Mrs Arroner, I am the wounded party. I strive only for your comfort. Comfort such as this takes money.'

'I know.'

'And money comes from our guests. No, it flows from our guests.'

'I know.' I bowed my head.

'If you would send our guests away you would send our money after.' He waved his arm towards the window. 'Farewell to comfort! To fine clothes! To fine food!'

'Dear husband, please, I do not wish our visitors sent away.'

'You do not?'

He peered at me and sat down slowly.

'No,' I sighed. 'I am content with the busyness of it. I am used to labour.'

'Yes,' he said, as though he did not fully believe me.

'I will do as you wish. We are wedded together, so we must work together.'

'Yes.'

'All I ask ...' Still the words eluded me. '... is to be your wife. Truly. Fully,' I added, heavily.

'My wife? Of course you are my wife! Ah, dear Mrs Arroner! I see it now. You think my eye is dazzled by our prettier guests?' He tugged the hair on my cheek.

'No,' I began, but he held up his hand.

'I have been a foolish man,' he said. 'Gifts are not sufficient.'

At this he fell to his knees and clasped my paws in his huge hands.

'Dear wife!' he bellowed. 'I am yours and yours alone. You are more dear to me than life itself! More precious than a string of pearls!'

'My love, there is no need-'

'But need there is! You have gifts: but be a.s.sured also of my devotion. Undying! Unwavering!'

He turned my hands over and pressed his lips on to the palms. As he lifted his face I leaned forward quickly and planted my mouth upon his, and felt him shudder away. His face pursed up as though he had bitten into a piece of bread and found it mouldy. It was a second only, and then he gathered himself, muttering how the girl was late in clearing away the luncheon plates and how he must make preparations for the afternoon's callers. Then he was gone. I knew what I had seen; I knew what must be done.

I went to my bedroom and sat on the edge of my bed, gazing into the little mirror he gave to me on his first visit. The girl reflected on that day was radiant as a princess, her hair a halo the sun blessed with its radiance. Now she was reduced: the gold had tarnished into bra.s.s, the brightness of her eyes had dimmed. It was confusing: I had a husband, a grand home, a stream of fine visitors; I did not even have to trouble myself to answer the door, for my husband did that himself.

I had everything a wife could wish for. I tried to tell myself I was being ungrateful, but I did not believe it. The gifts meant nothing: I had a husband, but I did not have his embrace. Donkey-Skin looked over my shoulder.

Dear girl, she murmured. Dear lost girl ...

I will not tell you to give up.

I will not advise you to be an obedient, quiet wife.

I will not tell you how many more nights of weeping you have left to live through.

I will not say: I told you so.

I will not say: I told you to be watchful for the right man.

Remember what I said about knives? It does not get better. But it does not get worse. It gets different. Exciting. Terrifying.

Be brave.

'I can't,' I sniffed. 'I want him. I would give it all up for a kiss: the house, the servant, the dresses, even the hats and fans. For him to take me into his arms, truly, as a man does his wife. For that, I would sacrifice my fur.'

The girl in the mirror shuddered.

What are you thinking of? said Donkey-Skin. Have you forgotten all the battles with your mother? With the world?

This is the mark that makes you the princess you are. How can you even think of giving that up?

Why do you wish to be the same as every other girl in the world?

I would not listen to her: my mind was made up. I grinned bravely, and the girl in the gla.s.s gave me a small smile of permission.

I can't believe you're considering this.

'But I must have him. I will do anything. Yes, even cut my hair.'

I don't believe you.

'Believe it. You're the one who started me thinking about knives. That was your prophecy, and he is a man with a sharp razor: I shall take it to myself.'

Do what you must, tutted Donkey-Skin. Twist my fortune-telling if it pleases you. But don't expect me to tell you the story of Samson and Delilah with a happy ending.

I crept into his dressing-room and found the razor and strop, the soap and bowl. I began on my arm, sopping it wet from wrist to elbow. For a moment I worried that I might have forgotten the way of it, but as soon as I held the handle I remembered how Mama stroked it against the leather, and I angled the blade against my skin and moved it till I heard the sharp, eager swishing of the edge through sticky hair.

My naked arm p.r.i.c.kled into goose-flesh; I ran my finger over my uncovered flesh, smooth as a doll's arm and twined with tendrils of red and blue veins. With a stroke of the razor I was turned into a girl, a real girl, just like a trick from the shows when the magician pulls away the silk square and the dove is changed into a kitten. Now the prestige was played turnabout: the kitten was turned into a dove.

I shaved around my throat, down to the brim of my corset and across my shoulders till only my beard and moustache remained. I nodded at the looking-gla.s.s, and then striped off cheeks, chin and brow.

'Look,' I said to Donkey-Skin. 'I am a true girl. Cinderella cleaned of her grime and ready to meet her prince.'

She would not answer.

Then I thought: What if my husband saw me so transformed and wished to take me straightway into his arms? I was only half-shaved; all the hair on my b.r.e.a.s.t.s and body covered me still. I blushed at my imaginings and was alarmed to see how I betrayed my feelings with crimson. I had always been able to hide behind my hair.

I peeled off my clothes and made quick work of my legs, belly and b.r.e.a.s.t.s, thwarted only by my back, which I could not reach. I would have to keep my face turned towards him; it would not be difficult. I would teach the kitchen girl to shave my back, or beg my husband for a maid all of my own. We were rich. I blinked at the gla.s.s. I was thinner than I remembered, my face pale as a water-biscuit. I pinched the blood back into my cheeks.

'What a princess!' I said. 'What do you think?' I cried as I twirled myself around, feeling my skin brave and cold against the air.

Donkey-Skin was silent.

'Come! Don't be like that. I am pretty, aren't I?'

My voice echoed off the walls.

'Where are you?'

I let her sulk. I knew what I was about: no longer a child in need of fairy stories to make sense of my world. Mumbo-jumbo predictions about dark strangers were for empty-headed girls. I was a woman, and a wife with a marriage to save. Her spell over me was broken.

No empty-headed hoping and wishing would ever draw my husband to me. I had the means to bring him to me all the time, but was too giddy-headed to see it: of course he did not want a beast, but a woman; and that is what I had made of myself. I was done wishing for him to be the phantom prince Donkey-Skin had dreamed up for me.

I dressed the cloth oddly rough against my new nakedness and took myself into the reception room, sat on my stuffed satin throne, and waited. He would be home soon, and I longed to see his surprise. Now I was shaved clean, I could permit myself to think back to our wedding night when I had seen distaste disgust in his features. My stomach turned over in a corner of itself. Well, no more: that was finished with and I would have my husband.

The outer door opened. There was the rattle of his cane in the stand, the click of his heels on the tiles. Then it was quiet, for I always ran to him at this moment. He would be standing in the hall, expecting me. I was blushing again, so hid behind my hands.

'Mrs Arroner?'

I held my breath, squirming in my seat.

'My dear?' he cried, a little louder.

I could wait no longer. 'I am here, my love!' I called.

Even my voice sounded clearer. Would he recognise me, so transformed? I found myself chewing on my lower lip. Of course he would, I chided. No other woman would answer to Mrs Arroner.

'Why are you in ...' he began to say, opening the double doors and stepping into the room.

His lips stopped moving, his body also, as if one of my old spells had finally begun its work. It lasted only the briefest moment.

'What in the name of all that is f.u.c.king holy have you done?'

I had heard the profanity before, but not from his mouth. He crossed the s.p.a.ce between us in two or three strides. He grasped the arms of the chair and pushed his face into mine. 'What have you done, my dear?'

His voice was very quiet. I knew the answer, but could find no words. I stared at him, wondering when language might return. It seemed a long way distant.

'Would you make a pauper of me? Would you have us thrown out on to the street? Well? Well?'

I could do nothing but stare at him.

'Do you want all your pretty trinkets sold to buy us bread? Do you hate your husband so?'

This last freed my body from its frozen state. I jumped up and ran down the hall and out of the house, along streets I could not name, my corset pinching my ribs so badly that I had to stop to catch my breath. I glanced up and saw myself reflected in a shop window: face pale as a punched loaf, eyes two dints where the baker had thumbed the middle. Behind me, men and women drifted past grey as Monday soup, and I was indistinguishable against the flock of dim faces.

I had made myself beautiful for my husband, and could not understand why he did not want me. I did not know I could feel like this: to ache for him to put his hands upon me, touch me here and here and here. Did not know how much I could need a man's grasp. I had lived with the smoothness of my mama's arms and now desired his rough hands, the crisp burn of his chin against mine, the tobacco bitterness of his tongue in my mouth, the weight of him on my small bones.

'I am beautiful, aren't I?' I whimpered to the pane of gla.s.s, but Donkey-Skin had not followed me.

There must be a man who would delight in my loveliness: why not my husband? A dark sleeve brushed mine and I stumbled.

'I am sorry, miss,' said a man I did not recognise, touching his hat.

I looked directly into his face, and waited for his eyes to widen, the ink of his eyes to bloom in approval at my new good looks. But he s.n.a.t.c.hed himself away and continued, barely breaking the rhythm of his stride.

I had nowhere to go. I could not go back to my mother; to her smile of victory as she opened the door and found me on the step, the way she always wanted me: broken, beaten, biddable. Never.

There was only one place to go, and that was back to Mr Arroner. I knocked at the door, for I had no key, and the maid answered, with a smile on her face I did not like. I tilted up my nose and strode past her, catching my face in the hall mirror; saw how I was the startled white-green colour of milk left standing too long. My husband was seated in the breakfast room, with a pot of tea and one cup.

'Ah, dear Mrs Arroner. You are returned. Let me call for another cup. I did not expect you so soon. Mary!' he shouted. 'So. You are refreshed after your excursion?'

'Josiah, I-'

He held up his hand. The girl brought a second cup and saucer, bobbed a curtsey and left us.

'I apologise for my previous outburst, Mrs Arroner. I was angry. But I have reflected upon your words and believe that I understand you.' He spoke as if his words were chicken bones and he must not snap one of them. 'You are lonely.'

'I am,' I whimpered. 'For you.'

He poured me a cup of tea and added four sugars.

'You have me always. I am your husband.'

He patted my cheek. I pushed my sleek skin into his palm.

'Dearest husband, all I want is for-'