I sat on my bed and stared at the printed wall. Mother refused to talk to me. She would not even look at me. She had begun to act like I didn’t exist. I knew I had done wrong by sneaking up into the attic, but Mother didn’t know I had done that, so that could not be what was making her so angry at me. In my aching mind, I replayed her reaction to the blood between my legs. That was what had made her so angry, and yet that was not my fault. Earlier in the day, when Mother had been in Clarabelle’s room, I had been naughty and looked in her Medical Encyclopaedia. According to the big book – which was non-fiction and therefore full of honest facts – every girl’s body did that sooner or later. To bleed was natural. It meant I was developing properly. It was a sign that I was entering a thing called puberty and my body was getting ready for pregnancy – which was a weird idea – but was not, I told myself forcefully, a sign that I was dying.

I thought about the evil photographs in the attic and Mother’s reaction made sense; I had to be more understanding and kind. If I showed Mother sympathy, maybe things would go back to normal.

I spent the morning trying to complete a really hard comprehension test on Oliver Twist. I loved the story, especially the bit at the beginning when Oliver asked for more food, but answering questions on the book wasn’t as fun as reading it.

I heard the front door slam and listened to the grumble of Mother’s car as it drove away. Even though I hadn’t seen her all day, I felt tension whoosh out of me like hot air.

Almost straight away a mewling sound came. I recognized it instantly: Clarabelle. She was crying. She started calling out, her voice high and croaky so I couldn’t hear what she was saying.

I left my desk and opened my bedroom door. The landing was a pool of gloom, the air stale and dry.

‘Clarabelle?’ I said, thinking about the name she’d mentioned before. Emma. Should I use that name? I didn’t know. Mother had told me that Clarabelle was confused, that the girl’s father’s evil actions had damaged her brain and made her think strange things – like the idea that her name wasn’t Clarabelle. Was Mother right?

‘Mir-a-belle? Mir-a-belle?’

My heart twanged at the wobble in the little girl’s voice. I hurried along the creaky landing and knelt outside her bedroom door. ‘Yes? You OK?’

‘Mirabelle? Is that you?’

‘Yes. It’s me.’

She sniffed. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi. Why are you crying? Are you hurt?’

‘No. I’m sad.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. My new mummy’s nice to me and she says she loves me, but I want to go home.’