I heard the back door open and peered round the kitchen door. Mother slipped out of the back door holding my near-empty plate. The door banged shut. I frowned and scanned the empty room, wondering why Mother had gone outside and why she’d taken my plate with her. Mother never fed the birds. She didn’t like them. Called them nasty little demons. Said she hated their beady little eyes.

I stared at the back door and it stared back, tempting me over. She hadn’t locked it. My feet tingled with the desire to cut across the short space. I took a step and the distant hiss of her voice caught at my ears and I hesitated in the doorway trying to make out her words, but they were too far away. Who could she be talking to out there?

Knowing I shouldn’t, I dashed over to the kitchen sink and put my ear to the blinds. There was silence for a beat followed by a bang. I jumped and pushed my ear right up against the slats. The kitchen door clicked. It began to open and I ran out of the room into the dining room, terrified Mother would see me and know I was up to no good.

In the dining room, I waited for my heartbeat to slow down and tried not to bite my nails. The idea that Mother was hiding something from me tugged at my mind, but I was more concerned about the things Mother had said to me. And the look in her eyes as she had said them.

Mother loves me.

Does she?

Of course she does. And you do look awful. Who wouldn’t look awful after being so sick?

I stripped off my long white nightdress and knickers, hoping to please her with my readiness to be dressed and made up. Mother walked past the dining room and went upstairs. I waited for her but she did not come downstairs after a minute or five minutes or ten or even thirty. She was probably tending to Clarabelle. Her new little doll.

Shivering in the gloomy room that reeked of dead flowers, I wondered what to do. I eyed the grandfather clock in the corner, neck tingling. It was huge and black and hideous with a gold-rimmed face and spiky gold hands. It was the ugliest clock in the world. I didn’t understand why Mother kept it. She said it had belonged to her grandfather. Said it was an heirloom.

My skin prickled as I approached the old clock. Up close, it wasn’t so scary. Scratches surrounded the dip in the lower door panel as though someone with long, sharp nails had opened it too many times.