‘Mother? I’m sorry.’

Mother did not reply. It did not even seem as though she had heard me.

I approached the table. ‘Mother?’

‘Yes?’ she said, continuing to paint the girl’s face.

Clarabelle’s eyes moved to mine. Her eyes looked sleepy.

‘I’m sorry I slept for so long. I didn’t mean to.’

‘That’s all right. Sit down and wait your turn. I’ll make you up in a second. I’ve nearly finished Clarabelle.’

Relief burst in my chest and I sat down, happy to wait, grateful Mother still wanted to paint me.

‘There!’ Mother said, clapping her hands and beaming at Clarabelle. ‘Isn’t she beautiful? Such a pretty little doll. Now what do you say, Clarabelle?’

The little girl yawned. She looked so strange with all that make-up on.

‘Thank you,’ she said groggily.

‘Thank you, what?’ Mother said.

‘Thank you … Mother.’

‘That’s better. Good little doll.’

Mother proceeded to brush Clarabelle’s curly blond hair. I watched, fighting a creeping sensation of unease. Why was Mother telling Clarabelle to call her Mother? I thought about how Clarabelle had insisted her name was Emma. Emma Hedges. I thought about the similarity between our names. Mirabelle and Clarabelle. Was it a strange coincidence or was the little girl’s name really Emma? And why did the child seem so groggy today? Just a few days ago she was screaming for her mummy and now she was behaving like this. So calm and obedient. Was it the medicine Mother had given her in the syringe? Was Mother … I could not complete the thought.

‘Go back up into your bedroom now, Clarabelle. I’ll be up to tuck you into bed soon. I know it’s morning, but you need to rest.’

Clarabelle obediently left the room. I watched her go. She moved sluggishly, as if invisible weights were tied to her ankles pulling her down.

‘What’s wrong with her?’ I said.

Mother’s eyes narrowed. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

I swallowed, regretting my words. ‘Nothing, Mother.’

‘She’s tired, that’s all. When you’ve been through something like she has, you become tired very easily.’

I nodded.

Mother picked up her red purse.

I looked down, feeling something wet between my legs. Mother’s eyes followed mine. She screamed and jumped up from the table.

‘You filthy girl! Go and wash yourself. Stuff your knickers with a flannel. I knew this was going to happen soon. I just knew it!’

‘What? Oh! What’s happening to me? Am I dying?’ I began to sob. I looked down at my nightdress, at the blood turning the white cotton bright red.