Now Claudia wished that they could turn back the clock, but not to before the mirror, that would solve nothing, to before the fire.

Useless wishes; wrenching grief; fear of the future; silent rage, with a consuming need to make those responsible pay.

Should she tell Marcy that the police still hadn’t caught anyone, that a connection to Marcus hadn’t been proved? She pictured him in his prison cell, satisfied with what he’d made happen to her and her mother, although no doubt furious and fearful about the arrests. Maybe he was already plotting what else he could do to punish her for that. He knew where she was now and that frightened her, but she wasn’t going to run away again. She couldn’t while her mother was still in hospital, and when it finally came time for her to go home she would need to be quiet, to take whatever time was necessary to heal in both mind and body. That was going to be easier among the friends they’d come to know and trust.

Deciding her mother wouldn’t want to hear about Marcus, or the fact that the police still seemed no closer to catching whoever had started the fire, she began talking instead about the coach house. She asked if Marcy thought she should try to re-create what had been there before—the same or similar patchwork sofas, the refectory table and colorful mismatched chairs—but she received no answer.

She changed the subject to Henry and how much he wanted to see her. At that her mother’s uninjured eye closed, and Claudia realized it had been the wrong thing to say. She hadn’t allowed any of their friends to see her since being admitted to hospital; there seemed to be a part of her that wanted to forget she even knew anyone else.

A while later Ruth came to check on them and Claudia gave a small shake of her head, letting the nurse know that she hadn’t been able to persuade her mother to respond to her.

After Ruth had gone, Marcy said, in a voice that was barely audible, “Did Jasmine go to the Proms?”

Relief rushed to Claudia’s eyes; her mother had spoken without prompting. “Yes,” she replied. “They’re staying the night, coming back tomorrow.”

Marcy whispered, “That’s nice.”

She spoke quietly, Claudia knew, because she didn’t want to emphasize the difficulty she had pushing words past the injured tissue inside her throat and mouth. The muscles there were still unable to work as they once had, so sometimes it was hard to understand her. It would improve, Rohan had assured them, but like the skin grafts and new eyelid it was going to take time for her body to accustom itself to the changes.