What on earth were bronchospasm and glucose variability problems? And what was an anaphylactic reaction? I flipped to the back of the book again, found bronchospasm, flicked to the right page. I couldn’t really understand what it was, just that it made breathing difficult. I found out that glucose meant blood sugar and guessed that glucose variability meant unstable amounts of sugar in the blood – why that would be a problem I couldn’t guess, but I didn’t have time to look it up. It didn’t sound that bad anyway – definitely not as bad as the broncho thing.

I sensed Mother. Any second now she would come running downstairs and I would have to shove the encyclopaedia back in its place and act normal. Unable to stop myself, I located the page about anaphylactic reaction. That sounded serious. Enough to kill a person if not treated by a doctor straight away. Was this what Clarabelle and I had? Was that why Mother wouldn’t let us outside? I swallowed, flicked back to page 222, hesitated, tore it out.

‘Mirabelle?’

Footsteps thudding downstairs, moving quickly. Urgently.

Mother was coming. She knew I was up to something. And I was. I was being gutsy for once. Breaking the rules. Mirabelle the gutsy had come out to play.

Thud, thud, thud.

My heart flipped. I stuffed the page down the front of my dress and frantically shoved the huge Encyclopaedia back into its place.

Thud, thud.

It got wedged in, half-sticking out of the shelf.

Thud.

I gave it another push. The book slid in an inch but still protruded more than the books beside it.

I swivelled on my knees to face the small bookcase as she strode into the room, eyes aflame.

Chapter 10

‘What are you doing?’ She fired out the words, sharp with accusation.

Trying to find out the truth.

‘Nothing, Mother. Just looking at my books.’

I could feel the crumpled page against my collarbone, thought for a horrible moment a corner of paper was visible out of the top of my dress.

Her eyes darted away from mine. She scanned the room quickly. I held my breath. Her eyes fell on the immense bookcase and she wandered over, raking her fingers through the hair on my scalp as she passed. The touch was not pleasant but not unpleasant. I wanted her to comment on how silky my hair felt, but she didn’t.

‘Shall I go upstairs and study?’ I said. I stood up, glanced at the Medical Encyclopaedia, at its traitorous position. Wished I’d given it a harder shove.

Her fingers danced across the shelf second from top. Tap, tap, tap across Agatha Christie’s spine. She hummed to herself – Eagles, I knew – apparently lost in her own thoughts. I was going to be lucky. Her focus wasn’t on me. It was on her beloved books. I turned to leave the room.

‘Mirabelle?’

I stopped. ‘Yes, Mother?’