In my bedroom, I sat on the tiny chair at the small white desk and studied hard. Harder than ever. I wanted to show Mother I was sorry for asking my question. I wanted to impress her with my speed, show her how many questions I could answer in an hour. She’d stopped teaching me last year when she said I’d reached a good level, saying that knowing more than that was useless anyway.

A shudder rocked my body. Black thoughts returned, leaking into my mind like bloody puddles. My hand froze above the textbook and I stared at the mustard and cream paisley wallpaper. Sometimes the print made me feel sick, but I could never work out why.

I pushed myself up from the desk and wandered to the oval mirror.

In my beautiful scarlet dress embroidered with its intricate green and yellow flowers, and with my face painted with such precision and care – my hair as glossy as satin in the weak lamplight – I looked healthy. I sort of glowed. Twinkled. Twinkled like stars I’d never seen, and would never see.

Tears prickled my eyes. I held them back and took a step closer to the mirror. I stared into my own eyes until my vision blurred black. Mother loves me, I told myself. My fingers went to my hair, my soft, shiny hair that Mother brushed so tenderly every morning and every night. I touched the sore grazes on my scalp. She had not drawn blood. Mother never drew blood. That would destroy my flawlessness, I thought, surprised by the bitter edge to the words.

‘Mother loves me,’ I said into the silence, to my reflection, to my little white bed, to the frilly pink curtains that hid the boarded window, to the gloom that for ever surrounded me.

A sound outside my room made me dash back to the desk.

‘Mirabelle?’

‘Yes, Mother?’

‘Why weren’t you sitting at your desk?’

She moved to stand behind me, placing her hands on my shoulders. Her hands were cold. She was a whole head taller than me, her body long and thin. I craned my neck to peer up at her. She tilted her head to the side and frowned.

‘I was admiring my dress in the mirror,’ I said quickly, feeling a stab of guilt at the lie.

She held my gaze until I looked away. Picking up a red pen from the desk, she bent over me and marked my work.

‘One hundred per cent, like always. Good little doll,’ she said, patting my shoulder. She placed an apple on my desk. ‘I’m going out. As it’s your birthday, you may read for the rest of the day in here or in the living room, whichever you would prefer.’

I gasped and stood up. ‘Oh, thank you, Mother! Thank you so much. Is this the surprise you mentioned?’