‘What were you really doing in here just now?’ Her voice sounded dreamy, faraway, detached. That voice made warning signs bounce off the walls.

My heart skipped. Be brave. Lie.

I bit back rising guilt. ‘I was looking for A Little Princess. I felt like reading it again, but I couldn’t find it.’

She turned and walked away from the bookcase towards me, her steps slow, eyes unfocused.

‘That’s because I’m reading it to Clarabelle,’ she said, stopping to stand in front of me.

She reached out and tucked my hair behind my ear. A tender gesture. I wanted to like it but her touch suddenly felt odd to me. Strangely false. Like the touch of someone trying to comfort a stranger.

‘It’s a great story. I’m sure she loves it,’ I said. ‘Shall I go to my room and study now?’

Eyes still glazed, she murmured, ‘I don’t like to talk about my sister.’

I tensed and looked at her. I waited and held in my questions. If she wanted to tell me more, she would.

In a small voice she said, ‘He gave her everything she wanted. Me, nothing. Nothing but lessons. I did everything I could to please him. Everything.’

I opened my mouth to ask what she meant and stopped myself.

She drifted away from the bookcase over to the grandfather clock. Her fingers traced the clock’s face, leaving smudges on the glass. I walked over and raised a hand to comfort her, to pat her back and soothe her and tell her I was sorry about what she had gone through.

She whirled around and my hand froze in the air.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me about his lessons? Don’t you want to know what she did to me, Mirabelle?’

‘Yes, I’m sorry, I—’

‘Just go. Go to your room now. I’m tired.’

‘Please, Mother, please. I really want to know.’ I placed my hand on her arm, gently, ever so gently.

She stared at my hand. A frown knitted her eyebrows together like the curtains in my bedroom. She muttered something I couldn’t hear.

‘Pardon?’ I said.

Her eyes were wet. She shook her head and a tear plopped onto the shiny white toe of her shoe.

‘You know, Mirabelle, sometimes I wish I’d never been born,’ she said, staring at the space above my head.

‘Why would you wish something horrible like that, Mother? If you hadn’t been born, neither would I.’

She laughed and looked away, fisting her hand so hard that her knuckles popped out like hazelnuts.

‘How can I make you feel better, Mother? I want to help you.’

She yanked her arm out from under my fingers and walked over to the sofa. She sat down and stared at her knees.

‘Mother?’

‘I’m fine. Go upstairs now, like a good girl.’