In the morning, in the clear stillness of the world after rain, I pulled a short-sleeved cardigan over my sundress, wrapped a shred of courage around the great betrayal of the letter, and went out. I had no proof of anything to go upon. Only the dislodged memories of monsters and notes passed in school (by whom I could not imagine), and that newspaper dated the week my father left us, and a very few people I could ask about the word painted on our fence.

“Why would I tell you?” said Mr Alleman, over the lantern-bush hedge, spikes between the hollow flowers. He gave his thin, yellow smile. “What would you give me to tell you?”

I knew no answer with which to dignify that.

The postmaster, who lived on Lower Spicer Street, was pulling weeds from the rain-soft earth in the shadow of his water tank.

“Hello, Bettina,” he said gravely, as he had since I was small. “And how are you this morning? Keeping up with your practice?”

I stared at him.

“Piano,” he supplied at last.

A memory of sweat behind my knees, my toes just brushing brass pedals and Mrs Sage precise beside me saying, “Raise your hands like you’re holding apples, Tina! If you drop your wrists, the wolves will get them.” I looked in surprise at my knuckles, white where I held on to the handlebars. My mother didn’t even like me to hum.

“Never mind,” he sighed. “Was there something Nerida wanted?”

“N-no,” I said. “It’s me. I. I wondered—only, perhaps it was a prank. I don’t like to worry my mother.” Perhaps I had only imagined that I was bold once.

“No one likes that,” said Mr Sage.

“Was there an envelope for me?” I hurried on, before caution or shyness could overwhelm me. “A little dirty folded one? It was in the mailbox.”

“No,” said Mr Sage. “I’d remember a letter to you, Bettina.”

I bit my lip. There was only one other person to ask.

“Try Gary Damson,” advised Mr Sage. I flinched, guiltily. “He won’t bite, Tina. Those notes from Gary are the only mail I ever remember for you. And if not him—well, sometimes he brings things into town for people. I’d take him to task for cutting in on my business, except he takes the mail run over in bad weather. Steadier than I expected him to turn out, all in all. Ask him.”

My mother always said, You are truthful, aren’t you, Bettina? I’d always answered, Yes, Mother. With an effort, I said, “If I see him. Thank you, Mr Sage.”

I looked over my shoulder as I turned the corner. He was shaking his head over his nasturtiums.