‘No, Mother, no! Please. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’

But Mother wasn’t listening. She unbolted the door, unlocked it and opened it an inch. She shoved my face towards the opening; I scrunched up my eyes and tried to resist but she was too strong.

‘Please don’t. I’m sorry!’ I sobbed.

There was a moment of silence, then Mother actually laughed. It was a short, sharp laugh. A laugh that suggested she was enjoying this.

Her grip on my hair loosened. She brought her mouth to my ear and whispered, ‘If you want to stay here with us, inside where it’s safe, you will keep your mouth shut, do what you are told, and you will never, ever mention her name again. Is that understood?’

I nodded. Silent tears streamed down my cheeks.

She let me go and pushed me backwards. I stumbled onto the stairs and fell on my back.

Mother closed and locked the door, threw me a disdainful look then walked away towards the kitchen, singing sweetly, ‘Little Doll? Why don’t we read a story together? Wouldn’t that be nice?’

I stared at her retreating back, lost in a whirlpool of emotions, but there was one emotion battling against the fear, misery and confusion that I had never really felt before.

Anger.

Chapter 9

I shouldn’t feel angry at Mother. Mother was coping with things in her own way. She was simply trying to protect me, make me understand. Light was deadly to me. And there were men out there like her grandfather who would want to hurt me. It was no wonder Mother had always told me the outside was so dangerous.

But she laughed at you. She enjoyed tormenting you. And if she really loved you, would she do what she just did to you? Would she threaten to send you outside into the deadly light if it really was deadly? And the light didn’t kill you that time when you were on the stairs and Mother started throwing bags through the doorway. Think about the article. Think.

No. Stop it.

I pushed myself to my feet and leaned against the banister. Mother’s voice floated out of the kitchen and along the hallway to my ears. She was reading to Clarabelle. It sounded like she was reading A Little Princess. A wave of sadness washed over me. Had Mother chosen that book on purpose? A Little Princess had been my favourite book since I was eight. It was Mother’s favourite children’s book too. When I was little she had once told me that she’d often felt like Sara Crewe as a child but, unlike Sara, she had not been allowed to have even one doll. I thought about the pictures in the attic. Mother’s twin sister had been surrounded by dolls. Had all of those dolls belonged to her?