Mother stood in the doorway. Her mouth was turned down at the corners and her eyes looked shiny. Over her arm she held one of her blouses. An ear-wax orange one with a huge white collar and large white flowers printed all over. It was very ugly.

‘I’m sorry, Mirabelle. I overreacted. I’m just worried, that’s all.’

‘Worried?’ I said.

‘Yes, I’m very worried.’

‘What about?’ I ventured nervously, helping Mother remove the stinking dress from my body.

She sighed and rubbed her face. She looked tired. Old. Her hair was starting to grey at the temples and wrinkles clustered around her eyes and mouth.

‘I’m worried about Clarabelle.’

Part of me didn’t want to hear about Clarabelle. I didn’t want Mother to focus on her any more than she already did. Another part of me, the curious cat part, was hungry to know all about the mysterious arrival of this little girl who I never even knew existed before yesterday.

‘Why are you worried?’ I said.

Mother handed me the orange blouse and I pulled it over my head, grateful to be away from the stench of my own vomit. The blouse smelled of oranges, like Mother, who wore an orange-blossom moisturizing cream every day. I’d asked if I could try it once but she’d said no. Moisturizer was for grown-ups, not little dolls.

Mother perched on the edge of my bed and I swivelled in my chair to look at her.

‘Turn on the lamp. It’s too dark in here,’ she said.

I switched it on, blinking to adjust my eyes to the sudden in-pouring of light. Mother’s shadow loomed larger than life on the wall behind her. Her head looked huge, alien-like. I had read all about aliens in Mother’s science-fiction books. Science fiction wasn’t my favourite genre, but Mother liked me to read a bit of everything. She said it widened my vocabulary and made me more interesting to talk to. But I knew I wasn’t interesting, or Mother would want to talk to me more often. I was about as interesting as a toilet roll.

I waited for Mother to speak, wary of asking too many questions. If I asked too many questions she could close up or get angry and I would never find out more about the little girl in the spare room.

‘There’s something I haven’t told you about grown-ups in the outside world,’ Mother said.

I waited, leaned forward a little, suddenly feeling very grown up.

She hesitated. Frowned. ‘Grown-ups can be cruel. Very cruel. They can have … evil urges.’

I gasped inwardly, struggling to wrap my mind around the implications of Mother’s words.

‘Clarabelle’s father,’ she said, ‘abused Clarabelle. He abused his own flesh and blood.’

‘That’s why you had to rescue her!’ I said, latching on at last.