“What do you think? Should we go sledding?” Dad asks from the front seat.

“Well…” Emily gives me a mischievous look. “We were thinking we could go over to Eastbury Pond and ice-skate if you don’t mind the drive.”

“Breakfast, ice-skating, hot chocolate, sledding,” I say, seconding Emily’s enthusiasm. “Then we order a large pizza, maybe two large pizzas, and drive around to look at all the holiday decorations in the rich neighborhoods.”

Dad parks his truck in front of Lucille’s diner and turns off the engine. “This is your day, Nova. Whatever you girls want to do, I’m game.”

The winter after my sixth birthday and a couple of months after Mom died, Dad started the December Twentieth Winter Celebration Day—our own made-up holiday, which had no association or nostalgia to remind us of our loss. Emily’s been a part of it every year since. And even though it’s fun if the twentieth falls on a weekend, it’s a million times better when it falls on a school day and our parents let us take the day off.

Emily and I jump out of the truck, our boots crunching the newly fallen snow, with grins on our faces—the particular kind of enthusiasm garnered from knowing we’re doing something awesome while everyone else is in math class.

There’s a knock on my bedroom door and I wipe my face off with the towel. “Come in.”

Pippa, the young maid who attends our suite, walks in with my freshly pressed clothes draped over her arm.

“Good morning,” she says, only it sounds more like a question than a statement. She lays my black leggings and white linen shirt over the trunk at the end of my bed.

“Thank you,” I say, trying to force life into my words, but I just wind up sounding uncomfortable.

Pippa’s eyes drift to my banged-up arms peeking out from the rolled sleeves of my nightgown. Her forehead wrinkles with concern and I quickly pull my sleeves back down, but the gesture only reminds me of my dream last night. I give her what I hope looks like a reassuring smile, but my heart’s not in it. If I can’t make Pippa think I’m okay and that everything’s normal, I’ve got no chance of convincing my deception-expert classmates.

Pippa stops halfway to the door and makes eye contact with me like she wants to say something, but just then Layla walks in and Pippa excuses herself. I fight the urge to blurt out a goodbye, give her a hug, and tell her thanks for taking such good care of me while I was here. No one can know we’re leaving, I remind myself.