My eyes snapped open. Mother continued to wipe off the make-up but the pressure she applied was more forceful. Panic nibbled at my insides.

‘I, um, fell,’ I said, staring at my hand, hoping she could not hear the frantic pacing of my heart.

She carried on wiping my face. The pressure lessened a little.

‘You fell?’ she prompted.

I stole a glance at her eyes. They were fixed on a space above my head. Zoned out almost.

I cleared my throat. ‘Yes. I went to the bathroom and when I was coming out, I thought I heard a noise, so I ran downstairs and I tripped and fell and my hand slammed down onto something sharp on the carpet.’

There. I’d lied. Guilt exploded in my chest. The bath suddenly felt too hot.

‘Mother, can I get out now, please?’

She nodded and left the room without saying a word.

Worry chewed and gnawed at me, but I pulled out the plug and climbed out of the bath. I wrapped a towel around myself and dried my feet on the bathmat before going out onto the landing. Mother was unlocking Clarabelle’s room.

‘Mother?’ I said.

Either she did not hear me or she pretended not to. She went into Clarabelle’s room and closed the door. I moved closer to the room. Was Mother angry? Why had she left so abruptly? I made my way to Clarabelle’s door and put my ear to the wood. I could hear Mother whispering loving, soothing things to the little girl. In that moment, a sharp pain twanged in my heart. I longed to be that little girl again. That perfect, innocent, unspoiled child who believed everything Mother said and who, in Mother’s eyes, was a perfect doll who was not about to die.

I turned and walked back to my bedroom. Dried blood soiled my bedsheets. I slowly removed the sheets and retrieved some fresh ones from the airing cupboard. I did not change my pillowcase.

Exhausted beyond tears, I got into bed and tried not to think about the newspaper article underneath my head and the dress in the rubbish bin.

I woke up, surprised to find that I had fallen asleep. My head felt groggy and my hand throbbed. I pulled on a nightgown and went downstairs as quietly as I could, unsure where Mother was, unsure whether she was angry with me. I did not know how long I had slept; if I had slept against Mother’s wishes, she was sure to be cross.

‘Mother?’ I said when I reached the bottom of the stairs – the stairs I had used in my lie.

There was no sound, no response, so I crossed the hallway and entered the living room, my heart jolting as I took in the scene.

Clarabelle sat at the table in my seat and Mother sat beside her, painting her face. The dead roses were gone, the vase empty.