I wince because I can’t get her to talk about school. How am I going to get her to do an ordinary workload, much less a massive one full of make-up work? It’s all well and good to shout “go do your homework” on a TV sitcom. It’s another thing entirely when a grieving child who’s lost her parents absolutely refuses to participate. There’s no such thing as consequences in her world. I can’t threaten to take away her board games or ground her from her friends, because the worst thing that can happen in her life has already happened.

We have that in common. I know exactly how she feels.

“We’ll figure it out,” I say, my tone sober. “Let me know where I can download all the work she needs to do, and we’ll start submitting it. She’s been having a really hard time.”

“We here at Southminster are not uncaring of her situation.”

“It’s only been a few months since her parents passed away.”

“If she were at a public school, it would be too late. She’d be held back for an entire year. Because of her enrollment with us—” In the pause, I understand what she means. Because she’s wealthy enough to afford a private school tuition. “She has the chance to catch up. But she must do the work. We have an academic reputation to protect.”

I hang up the phone and head back into the sitting room.

How am I supposed to convince Paige to do her schoolwork? I can put dinner on the table and wash her clothes. That’s a different story than making her do schoolwork when she’s determined to ignore it. The dilemma sits in my stomach like a stone the rest of the day. It floats in my body, hard and heavy, as I lay down in bed that night.

I lay there for hours—warm. Warm, because of Mr. Rochester’s blanket. Full of questions, because of Mr. Rochester’s secrets. He’s not even in the room with me but he invades my body. He brushes across my surface and steals through my cracks.

Light flashes across the ceiling.

Lightning?

Or something else?

I sit up in bed and push the covers away. Cold air whispers underneath my nightgown and makes me shiver. I cross the room and look out the window. My stomach turns over from nerves. I’m trembling, but I force myself to search the grounds.

A full moon. Dark grass. An eternity of water peppered with white foam.

Rivulets of water distort the view, but I can see clearly enough. There’s no one there. A shiver runs down my spine. Would I know if there was? There are so many trees. So much land. A million shadows. And frankly, the kitten is a terrible guard dog.