I considered telling her the truth. She had a right to know. But if she knew, and I made her promise not to say anything, would she break her promise? Mother couldn’t know that I knew the truth. If she found out, she’d be very angry. Maybe too angry to control what she did to me.

‘Why?’ she repeated, her voice whiny.

‘She just wouldn’t like it, that’s all.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because … because it will upset her that the picture you’ve drawn isn’t of her.’

‘Oh. Oh, OK! I’ll draw one of her then. Shall I do that?’

‘Yes. That’s a great idea. That will make her happy, and it’s good to make Mother happy.’ I almost choked on the words.

An odd silence followed, stretching on for too long. Feeling guilty, I shifted on my knees and thought about going back to my room.

‘Mirabelle?’ she whispered.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you like Mother?’

I hesitated. ‘Do you?’

The little girl sniffed. Her voice wobbled. ‘Sometimes she looks at me in a cross way and I don’t like it.’

Again, I fought the urge to tell her the truth.

Emma started to cry. ‘I think I want to go home. Mother says my old mummy is poorly, but I don’t care.’

‘Don’t cry, Emma. Please don’t cry.’

‘You called me Emma!’ she gasped.

I bit my lip.

Her crying grew louder. ‘I want to go home. I want to see Mummy and Daddy. I don’t like it here.’

‘Shush. Be quiet—’

I stopped talking. There was rumbling up the gravel path. Mother was back.

‘Stop crying. She’s back. She won’t like it. And don’t tell her about your picture. I’ve got to go.’

The front door clicked. I scurried back to my bedroom, shut the door and sat at my desk, heart hammering against my ribs. Emma went silent, but not before Mother heard her and thundered up the stairs.

Chapter 17

‘Clarabelle? Are you awake?’ Mother’s voice was quiet. Too quiet.

Her footsteps carried her to a stop outside my bedroom. I could feel her standing there, hovering on the landing like a giant spider.

Emma stayed silent. I tensed and dug my nails into my palms.

‘Little Doll? Were you crying? It’s all right. Mother won’t be angry.’

Emma said nothing.

Fear laced my spine. The lie in Mother’s words was as clear as water, her anger unmasked by her sugary tone – a tone I knew so well; knew better than the face of the grandfather clock or the grooves of the boarded windows. She was angry that Clarabelle had woken up or angry that she was upset. Maybe both. It must be killing her that her new little doll was finding it hard to accept her new home and new, fake mother.

‘Clarabelle, I know you’re awake. Answer me. Now.’