As it turned out, I didn’t need to crane my neck. Copeland Hall, as Mr. Albright called the house, was too big to miss. It was a huge gray building, both long and tall, with boxy outcroppings and peaked roofs and windows, and towerlike projections poking out from various places. Ivy clung to the stone walls, and gnarled trees threw patches of dappled shade against the facade.

When the SUV rounded a corner, I spotted a pair of huge wooden double doors on the side of one of the stone rectangles that bulged off the main structure. The doors faced the side of the property, not the front, as if the house was turning away, hiding its face from visitors.

A two-story garage with spaces for six cars hulked behind the building, and we pulled all the way into one of the bays before the SUV came to a stop.

“Leave your things,” Mr. Albright said, as if my luggage had consisted of five trunks, eight suitcases, three hatboxes, and a birdcage. “I’ll bring them later.”

I looked helplessly at my backpack, not wanting to be parted from it. After only six weeks at Palmer House, I’d begun to develop the anxiety that all the girls shared—the nagging feeling that someone wanted to steal from me. But seeing the lumpy, overstuffed canvas and the broken zipper that only closed halfway, I decided to leave it behind.

“We’ll go in the side entrance,” he said, leading the way toward a single door near the corner of the building.

I scanned the grounds as we approached the house. The lawns were immense and lushly green in the summer sun. It was a pleasant day, not too hot, with a light breeze. Birds twittered lazily from their shaded hiding places and a squirrel hunched under a bush, working hard to tear apart some small fruit or nut.

I live here now, I thought, trying the thought on like a dress.

Shouldn’t a person feel a rush of emotion at the thought of being part of such a grand place? Shouldn’t I feel happy? Or intimidated? Or . . . lucky?

I felt . . . nothing.

Until, that is, I stepped through the door behind Mr. Albright and saw the Suttons standing right there, waiting for us.

Then I felt something: completely embarrassed.

I’d assumed I’d have the chance to wash my face, brush my hair, psych myself up.

But instead, I found myself being inspected by a man and woman standing about ten feet away—a perfectly matched set of well-bred, meticulously presented rich people.