Michael began to explain. “Speed skaters often have to customize their skates for certain events. We use it so the blades can grip the ice at just the right angle for high speeds. But bending a blade for figure skating is disastrous. As we can see from Joe. It’s not something you’d notice to begin with. You’d have to take a few jumps and turns. Which Joe did during practice.”

“So why exactly are you telling me this, Sibby?”

“They’re going to try to blame you.”

“Blame me?” So Susan was right.

“Brianna is at the club right now with her parents,” Michael said.

“Blaming me?”

They both nodded. How stupid was that! Joe, Anand, and Myles were all her friends, not potential boyfriends. If there were any potential boyfriends, it was that cute guy Andrew, the horse master’s son. But he was an ocean away, both in time and space, in the sixteenth century. But jeez! It dawned on her that there was also Jamie at Hunter Valley, and guess who had a huge crush on him—Lisa! Things were starting to make sense.

“But,” Michael said, “to my sister’s credit, she told me the whole story this afternoon. She confessed. And if you’ll drive with us over to the club right now, we’ll tell Coach Feynman.”

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry,” Sibby wailed, and flung her arms around Rose’s waist. She was hiccuping now and had managed to smear snot all over Rose’s down vest. “I wanted to be like them. I wanted to be included, but now I see . . . I’m awful. I’m a horrible person.”

“No,” Rose said.

All she could think of was how much she wanted to get away, to go back to Hatfield, to Stow-on-the-Wold, to find her dad. But now was not the moment. Not the bewitching moment. Still holding September in her arms, she climbed into the car with Sibby and Michael.

“And just so you know. There was this little mix-up and . . . and . . . Rose Ashley said something about wanting to skate, and she had these old skates . . .” Brianna was talking very fast and very breathlessly.

“I did? I said that?” Rose roared as they entered the office of the head coach at the Indianapolis skating club.

“That cat. Get that cat out of here. It’s . . . it’s . . . ,” Brianna screeched.

“Coach,” Michael said, “my sister has something to tell you.”

“You wouldn’t dare, Sibby,” Brianna hissed.

Sibby seemed to have recovered.

“Oh yes I would.” She squared her shoulders and began to explain the whole story, plus the plan to place the blame on Rose.

The coach, a mild-looking man, seemed to turn gray as stone.

“Thank you, Sibby,” he finally said. “I think for now it would be best if you not participate in the Snow Show. But it took courage to come forth with the truth.

“Now, you, Brianna. You’re another story.”