“What about my spiders?” Ned cut in.

“He stole my quizzing glass!” I protested.

“What use do you have for it, Mary?”

“Spiders, spiders, spiders,” Henry sang, crawling his fingers up the window.

“He can have my stupid quizzer!” In an angry instant I pulled it from my pocket and threw it at Ned’s chest. He tried to catch it, but it landed on the hard stone floor. He picked it up and held it to the light, cracked in two places, the length of it.

“Look at that,” said Papa. “It’s no good to anyone now.”

Ned smiled again, victorious. It sank me to see what I’d done. Was I no better than he was?

“Please, Papa!” I heard myself begging, which is what he wanted from me. I looked into his eyes, trying to find some shred of kindness in him—some remembering what it was to be young, to want to belong to the world.

“You’re nobody, Mary. Less than nobody. That’s who you are.” He crumpled the letter, but he might as well have crushed my heart in his fist. “You’re not to set foot out of this house. Do you understand?”

My eyes burned, but I looked at him, saying nothing. My fury a mirror of his.

Eliza and Everina looked at their laps. Betsy stood, ready to defend me. Smug Ned waited for my inevitable answer. For Papa must be answered.

“Yes, Papa,” I said, wishing I were dead. “I understand.”

“Spiders, spiders, spiders,” Henry sang.

“Shush, Henry. Dinner’s nearly on,” said Mama, who appeared at the door.

“I’ll take mine at the pub,” said Papa, who would use Jane Arden’s invitation to justify drinking another meal. He let the door slam, the thin windows shuddering behind him. Betsy whimpered, and then silence. I leaned down to snatch up the letter and held it dear in my trembling hands.