The curious phial that my cousin purchases from the mountebank quickly disappears into the fob of Cosgrove's burgundy waistcoat. I open my mouth to lecture my foolhardy companion, but I close it again after an unspoken discourse with the manservant. I should know by now to trust his influence over her.

Where should we go next? Amalie asks with the corner of her smile and an errant eyebrow. To the roundabout? I suggest silently. She answers with an approving nod.

I stab the air with my walking stick, in the direction of the roundabout, and we begin our journey. The grounds are littered with a great many distractable sights and sounds, many of which hold young Sabine's attention far longer than the rest of us. We stop to observe them for a brief while, as we make our way to the carousel, but we don't tarry too long on any one distraction. Cosgrove, Amalie and myself are usually several paces on our way before Sabine takes notice and hurries after.

The roundabout is a glorious sight. The wooden menagerie that dance upon the mechanical, turning platform are gilded and painted in the brightest of colours. The canopy is just as intricate, painstakingly carved and painted to resemble a woodland ceiling, densely branched and leafed.

Taking my hand, Amalie mounts a beautiful jade palfrey. She wraps her gloved hands tightly round the vertical brass pole that runs through the withers of her steed. Sabine finds a suitable seat in the trumpet of a large daffodil. Cosgrove is content to stand beyond the carousel and watch. He sighs and steals a glance at his pocketwatch. I find my seat upon the back of an argentine stag with golden antlers and red ears, eyes and hooves.

Steam bursts from the centre of the mechanism, issuing calliope music from the brass pipes surrounding the hub of the roundabout. The ride has begun, and the menagerie of faux flora and fauna rise and fall to the sound of music. I have not enjoyed an amusement of this ilk since visiting Vauxhall Gardens in London, as a boy. It is quite different this time. Firstly, the music is a queer sort of arrangement. It's based on motifs found in popular song, perhaps something playing on the music halls, but something about it is not right. Secondly, the speed of the roundabout is growing faster than I remember. It may owe to my advancing years, but I think not.

I look behind me to see what Amalie or Sabine think of the ride, but I cannot see anyone through the thick clouds of steam that continue to burst from the carousel's hub. What is that smell? Incense? The aroma is ambrosial and soporific, and mingles with the large quantities of steam. I struggle to keep myself balanced upon the stag's back. Soon, I have greater worries.

My argentine stag leaps from the turning platform and its hooves beat against the earth below. I am no longer upon a wooden toy but a flesh-and-blood deer, bounding this way and that, through a strange, misty fen. The unsettling calliope music plays on, echoing as though on the opposite end of a long tunnel.

Where has the Carnival gone? Where is this stag taking me? Or will I wake up in Drakesheath Hall to find that this has all been a dream?