Recently, Violet had had the disturbing realisation that she was old.

Witch. The word slithers from the mouth like a serpent, drips from the tongue as thick and black as tar.

Might it be possible to have both things? Love and insects? Perhaps Frederick would fall in love with her, and then, once they were married, would be quite happy for her to become a world-travelling scientist. But even as these thoughts made her feel warm and light inside, doubt rolled in like a dark cloud.

sees that it is an old carriage clock, swathed in cobwebs. Its hands are stopped; frozen forever at six o’clock.

Time seemed changed by the trial. Whereas before, my days had been broken up by little rituals and milestones – milking the goat of a morning; picking berries in the afternoon; readying tonics for the sick in the evening – now there was just court and sleep. Fear and dreams.

Violet had never much liked the idea of being married. She would have been quite happy to pursue her ambitions alone,

Father planned to throw a big party for her ‘coming out’. Then – he hoped – she would catch the eye of some eligible young man, a lord-to-be, perhaps, and swap this prison for another one.

Time was funny like that, Violet thought. Speeding up and slowing down at the strangest of moments. Sometimes, she had the odd sensation that her whole life was happening at once.

She’d almost convinced herself of it, that she could slip on that old professional persona the way one would a coat.