Eliza had split each day between her two favorite places on the estate: the black rock down in the cove, on top of which millennia of tides had washed smooth a seat-sized platform; and the hidden garden, her garden, at the end of the maze. What a delight it was to have a place of one's own, an entire garden in which to Be. Sometimes Eliza liked to sit on the iron seat, perfectly still, and just listen. To the windblown leaves tapping against the walls, the muffled ocean breathing in and out, and the birds singing their stories. Sometimes, if she sat still enough, she almost fancied she could hear the flowers sighing in gratitude to the sun.

Apart from such visits, for the first time in her life Eliza was truly alone. In the beginning, unfamiliar sounds, nocturnal sounds, disturbed her, but as the days passed she came to know them: soft-pawed animals under the eaves, the ticking of the warming range, floorboards shivering in the cooling nights. And there were unexpected benefits to her solitary life: alone in the cottage, Eliza discovered that the characters from her fairy tales became bolder. She found fairies playing in the spiders' webs, insects whispering incantations on the windowsills, fire sprites spitting and hissing in the range. Sometimes in the afternoons, Eliza would sit on the rocking chair listening to them. And late at night, when they were all asleep, she would spin their stories into her own tales.

Apart from such visits, for the first time in her life Eliza was truly alone. In the beginning, unfamiliar sounds, nocturnal sounds, disturbed her, but as the days passed she came to know them: soft-pawed animals under the eaves, the ticking of the warming range, floorboards shivering in the cooling nights. And their were unexpected benefits to her solitary life: alone in the cottage, Eliza discovered that the characters from her fairy tales became bolder. She found fairies playing in the spiders' webs, insects whispering incantations on the windowsills, fire sprites spitting and hissing in the range. Sometimes in the afternoons, Eliza would sit on the rocking chair listening to them. And late at night, when they were all asleep, she would spin their stories into her own tales.

Eliza had a skill for rat catching, though she didn't like to do it. The rats were just trying to stay alive after all, as best they could in a city that favored neither the meek nor the mild. She tried not to think what Mother would say- she'd always had a soft spot for animals-

Beneath the notebook she found the book of fairy tales. The cover was green cardboard, the writing gold: 'Magical Tales for Girls and Boys', by Eliza Makepeace. Cassandra repeated the author's name, enjoying the mysterious rustle against her lips. She opened it up and inside the front cover was a picture of a fairy sitting in a bird's woven nest: long flowing hair, a wreath of stars around her head, and large, translucent wings. When she looked more closely, Cassandra realized that the fairy's face was the same as that in the sketch. A line of spidery writing curled around the base of the nest, proclaiming her "Your storyteller, Miss Makepeace.

Girls in Victorian London were employed in all manner of menial positions- domestic servants, fruit sellers, flower girls- and Eliza's depiction of mangles and hot tubs in some of her fairy tales suggests that she was intimately acquainted with the task of laundering. The vampirelike beings in "The Fairy Hunt" may also reflect the early nineteenth-century belief that sufferers of consumption were vampire-afflicted: sensitivity to bright light, swollen red eyes, very pale skin and the characteristic bloody cough were all symptoms that fed this belief.