The cuckoo killed other baby birds so that her own baby would be brought up by another mummy. Mother hadn’t done that. She hadn’t killed me, but she had stolen me and shut me inside and kept me in constant fear of dying before I grew old. She had stolen Emma too and now Emma faced the same life as me. A life in the dark. A life full of lies.

I shuddered and stared into my bloodshot eyes. My face looked grey in the unlit room. Kind of dead.

Which was worse? Being killed by another baby’s mother when you were too young to know the difference, or being stolen from your mummy then made to live in the dark?

I had been living these past ten years but was I really alive? Mother called me a doll, but dolls weren’t alive. It made me think of Pinocchio, the wooden puppet turned into a real boy. Was I like Pinocchio – but in reverse? Had Mother been trying to turn me from a real-life girl into a lifeless doll? Someone she could control?

It was a weird thought. One that made me grow cold from the inside out.

Yes, you are alive. Of course you are. You can breathe and bleed and cry and breathe and bleed and cry some more. It’s better to be alive than dead.

But is it better to be alive than dead if I’m trapped in this house for the rest of my life?

The idea made my heart flutter with confusion and fear, yet a thrilling pulse of excitement shot through my veins.

I thought about the outside, about the wonderful things I could see and do, and the heart-stopping possibility of seeing my real mummy and daddy; and then I thought about the dangerous people I could meet. If what Mother said was true, there were evil people on the outside.

But there’s a dangerous person in here too. A person who took you ten years ago. A person who lies and keeps you locked up inside. A person who made you think you were dying.

Now that you know the truth, do you really want to stay here for ever, trapped in a prison with someone like that?

My reflection frowned. This was all I’d ever known. She was all I’d ever known.

And Clarabelle – no – Emma … what about Emma?

As if she’d read my mind, the little girl began to batter her fists against her bedroom door.

‘Mirabelle! Mirabelle! Are you there?’

I turned. My heart thumped. Mother was out, but she’d been out for a long time now. How long I didn’t know. Too long to be sure she wouldn’t return to the cottage any second.