Why she didn’t unlock the door and go into Emma’s room, I didn’t know. It was almost like she was enjoying Emma’s fear.

‘Clarabelle—’

‘Mirabelle called me Emma. Why do you call me Clarabelle?’

My eyes widened and my pulse smashed against my temples.

‘What?’ Mother said.

I heard her unlocking Emma’s door, heard her open and shut it, heard their muffled voices. I couldn’t make out their words.

A sick feeling swirled in my tummy. I wasn’t supposed to talk to Clarabelle. I definitely wasn’t supposed to call her by her real name.

I glanced around the room, suddenly afraid that Mother’s rule of never drawing blood might have changed. Before I knew the truth, I’d believed she would never hurt me badly, but now I wasn’t certain of anything. She wasn’t the person I’d thought she was. The person I’d believed her to be would never have spoiled my looks, but now that she had Emma, her new little doll to paint and dress, would she care if I wasn’t perfect? Would she stop herself from spoiling my face or body?

I heard Clarabelle crying and winced. Mother could be frightening her, or worse – brushing her hair so hard it grazed her scalp, like she’d done to me before. She wouldn’t shed any of Emma’s blood, but the idea that the small girl was scared or in any kind of pain was horrible. And it was all my fault – I had called her Emma.

Mother’s voice cut through my thoughts, sending shudders through me. ‘There, there, Little Doll. Mirabelle is very jealous of you, that’s why she called you that silly old name. She just wants to confuse you. But don’t worry, Mother will punish her for it.’

She was speaking loudly on purpose so that I would hear.

Chapter 18

I sat at my desk and bent over a textbook, but I was oblivious to its words. My head whirled with uncertainty. And fear. Mother stood on the landing outside my room. I could hear her breathing, smell her orange-blossom moisturizer. Part of me wanted her to stand there for ever. Another part wanted her to come in and get it over with. Whatever it was, I could handle it. In the last few weeks, she’d ripped my clothes off me and scraped my scalp and slapped me in the face, and I’d handled it – what more could she do to me that she hadn’t already done?

Still, my heartbeat smashed against my chest like it was trying to break out. My hands trembled, so I sat on them and tried to read the book on my desk, but the words were a blur.