She picked up the shimmy, and several items fell from its folds. Baptismal certificates, her own and Abriana’s. And a photograph.

It was the Easter Sunday photo of her sister at Assumption Catholic Church. Abriana smiled at the camera, pretty as a girl in a soap advertisement, in her Easter hat and dress. The newspaper photographer must have given the photo to her mother after Abriana had disappeared. Why had her mother kept it hidden all this time?

She tried not to cry. After a minute, she put all the clothing back into the trunk, except the cotton shimmy and her wool stockings. She set the picture of her sister alongside those of Harriet and Clyde, Saint Dymphna and Maria’s doll, Henry’s card. Then she opened the paper sack and dumped its contents on the mattress. She unbuttoned her shirt, tossed it on the floor, picked up the middy dress, and felt a spasm of anxiety—what if it buttoned down the back?

It didn’t. It had no buttons at all—it was designed to be pulled on and off quickly. A costume, not a real dress.

The thought reassured her. She tugged her old cotton shimmy over her head, then pulled on the dress. It fell just below her knees. A child’s dress, intended for someone younger than Pin. It felt tight around the bust—flat chested as she was, Pin still had breasts. She ran her hands over the front. The fabric was thick enough that, with the shimmy beneath, she couldn’t feel her nipples. She wished she had a mirror.

She tied the ends of the sailor collar in a clumsy bow, kicked off her boots and socks, and pulled on the hated black stockings, too heavy for summer though everyone wore them anyway. Her boots went back on, boys’ boots but maybe no one would notice.

All that remained was the wig. She picked it up with a grimace: a cap of stiff blond ringlets, long enough to cover her ears, topped by an enormous cornflower-blue bow. The color almost matched the faded blue of her middy dress. Pin smiled: Glory must have selected it on purpose.

The wig’s hair and flax had been glued to a flexible burlap form. A loop of string dangled from each side, to go over her ears. She tugged it on, stuffing her own dark curls beneath the blond ringlets.

It fit, barely—like the dress, it was designed for a younger girl. She slipped the two loops over her ears, did her best to hide them beneath the stiff ringlets, and glared at her discarded clothing on the floor. She still had no idea what she looked like. She stepped to the window and pulled aside the grimy muslin curtain.