‘Mirabelle?’ Her voice floated up the stairs into my bedroom. It sounded so familiar, so her.

I curled myself over. Hugging my injured hand to my stomach, I croaked, ‘Mother?’

‘Mirabelle? Mirabelle!’ She was coming up the stairs now, her footsteps heavy and angry, her voice sharp.

‘In here, Mother,’ I whispered.

The door burst inward and she rushed towards me, ‘Mirabelle! What happened?’

‘I cut my hand,’ I said.

‘How? On what? What on earth were you doing?’ she demanded, crouching down in front of me.

I shrugged. Tears dripped down my cheeks onto my bloodied lap. I saw Mother take it all in; my spoiled face, ruined dress, torn hand. I could not bring myself to lie to her. But I would not tell her exactly what had happened.

Mother stared at me. A frown creased the space between her eyebrows. I waited, sniffed, tried not to hope too hard that she wouldn’t get mad. Her eyes darted all over my face and dress. Her lips pursed and she shook her head.

‘Poor little doll,’ she murmured. She leaned over and kissed my hand, ‘If dolly has a headache, or breaks an arm or two, just kiss the place to make it well, that’s all you have to do.’

She left the room then returned with a laundry basket. She helped me remove my dress and dropped the soiled material into the basket then led me to the bathroom where a hot bubble bath was running. The mirror steamed up and the soothing fragrance of orange-blossom saturated the warm air.

‘This is a sign,’ she said darkly, whether to me or to herself I couldn’t be sure.

She checked the temperature of the water then helped me step into the bath. Immediately, my muscles relaxed and the cramps in my tummy eased.

‘Keep your hand out of the bubbles,’ she instructed, her tone gentle.

I watched her leave the room. Mother was not furious. She was being loving and kind. Mother would never lie to me.

Mother doesn’t lie.

The article didn’t mean anything. The label on the dress didn’t mean anything. There was no need to say anything or do anything about it. Mother need never know.

She came back in and cleaned my hand with disinfectant, her movements slow and soft, her brow creased with concern.

I watched her bandage my hand. She knew what to do. Mother always knew what to do. She had trained as a nurse before she had me. Nurses cared for people. A nurse would never do anything bad. Mother would never do anything bad.

‘There,’ she said. ‘Now tell me what happened.’

She moistened a cotton wool ball in the bath water and gently removed my make-up.

I closed my eyes, enjoying the sensation of soft, warm cotton wool stroking my face.

‘Mirabelle, tell me.’