“Do you see? When your mother was brought to bed, she delivered nothing—nothing at all. But by then, your father knew of your birth. He knew!”

“But why would you cleave a child from her own mother?” I cast back at her across the grave.

“She said she did not want a child.” Cook shuddered. “I decided, at last, to take her at her word.”

“Then you are—” I could not finish.

“Susannah,” she answered simply, though the name seemed forced through her lips.

I shook my head, still disbelieving, but wishing to hear it all said aloud at last. “And Miss Grange?”

“My sister. Your mother.”

“But—I am Maisie Thomas.”

“Oh, my dear”—she gave a thin smile—“that is only just a name.”

In the milky sky above her head, soft clouds had succeeded the fierce brightness of the moon.

She sighed, as one who has finished with sighing. “You are Perdita Grange,” she declared.

I shut my eyes, but her voice with my name upon it continued, above me, around me.

“Then this is my grave?” I sobbed.

She nodded. “Two months after your birth, I ‘buried’ you here.”

“And she did not see the ruse?”

“She was too ill.”

“So she never knew—” My throat closed.

“She never knew you were hers,” Susannah finished, the tears in her voice finally loose.

I spun from her and ran. Through the spectral trees I ran, blindly, my feet moving while my brain snagged on the name, Perdita. I could see the path before me, the moon shone down so bright, and though I did not think, I followed, panting, wishing only to leave my aunt behind with that hollow grave, wishing only to press on out of the woods and into the bare grasses, out underneath that clarifying moon. I ran to the tune of Perdita, Perdita, Perdita, and the closer I drew to the clearing, it was as though I heard an echoing patter of footsteps, as if someone followed me in my anguish, as if someone came along behind.

At last I cleared the woods and emerged into the back field. Across the grasses I ran, past the House, down the lawn, and through the dark boathouse, out onto the dock and the boats. Breathless and intent, I knelt to untie one of the dinghies, my fingers struggling with the knot, and still the words bobbed free: My sister. Your mother.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Footsteps clattered upon the wood above me, and I wrenched at the rope, sobbing, desperate to leave. The footsteps stopped. I looked up, and there was Bart, silently watching me, and waiting. I turned back to the knot in my hands.

“I heard it all.”

I stopped what I did, my heart thudding, and looked at him. Tears sprang into my eyes.

“Let us row,” I pleaded.