I flinched at the creak of the landing floorboards as she moved. She didn’t enter the room; she went into the bathroom for a few minutes then headed downstairs, footsteps hurried.

I lay on the floor and pressed my ear to the musty carpet. I could hear her doing something downstairs, moving things around aggressively by the sound of the thuds, bangs and crashes that came through the floor below me.

Stiff with tension, I tiptoed to the door. No sounds came from Emma’s room. I wondered if she was OK. I wanted to call out and ask her, but didn’t dare risk it – not with Mother in the house. Part of the reason she was mad was because I’d spoken to Emma.

Footsteps hammered up the stairs, making me jump. I leapt away from the door and dashed to my desk, sat down and stared at my exercise book.

Mother pushed open the door and stepped into the room. ‘Mirabelle?’

‘Yes, Mother?’ I said, turning to look up at her, finding her name odd on my tongue.

Her eyes looked like black buttons. She wore a flowery dress that made her look thinner than normal.

‘Did you talk to Clarabelle when I went out?’ Her voice was cold and thin.

‘Yes. She was calling out, so I went to see if everything was all right.’

She looked down at her hands and took another couple of steps into the room, bringing a sickly-sweet smell of sweat with her. Her face was flushed, hair pasted to her cheeks. A vein stuck out of her forehead, pulsing like a snake.

I swallowed, told myself she wouldn’t hurt me.

‘I was worried about her,’ I said.

‘She told me you called her Emma. Is that true?’

If a voice could cut, hers would.

I swallowed again. Took a breath. ‘When she first got here she told me that was her name. I was talking to her and it slipped out. It was an accident. I’m sorry, Mother.’

‘I told you not to talk to her. That you would only make matters worse and that’s exactly what you’ve done. You went against my instruction. You poisoned her mind. She’s already confused, and now, because of your selfish, jealous desire to stick your nose in, you’ve made her worse.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’

She leaned over and stared into my eyes. ‘You’ve changed. You’re not the innocent, sweet, little doll I thought you were. You’re just like her.’

‘Like who?’ I said, though I was pretty sure who she meant.

‘Olivia,’ she spat.

Spittle hit my lip. I flinched and drew back.

She grabbed my upper arm and squeezed. ‘She lied and stole and did whatever she wanted. She was selfish too. All she wanted was to see me suffer. I’m beginning to think that’s all you want. Is it? Is that what you want, Mirabelle?’