I was saved from having to reply by a soft knock on the door signifying Mr. Albright’s return. He was carrying my backpack and the plastic bag.

“I can take these upstairs,” he said. “Which room?”

“Oh, the nursery, Tom, of course,” Laura said. “She’ll be staying with Agatha.”

CHAPTER

5

AS LAURA AND I walked back up to the nursery, a lump rose in my throat. This was not what I’d signed up for. No, no, no. Not this. Being friendly was one thing. Being roommates was different.

What would happen when I screamed at night?

Laura, ahead of me, knocked on the door and pushed it open.

“Agatha, we’re back,” she said.

The figure at the window didn’t move.

“This bed is Agatha’s,” Laura said.

Trying to conceal my dismay, I looked at the other bed, not six feet from Agatha’s. Like hers, it was perfectly made with a quilted white bedspread and a pale yellow throw pillow.

“I was thinking . . . if you’d like a little more space of your own, you could take the nanny’s bedroom,” Laura said haltingly, gesturing toward a door in the wall to our right. I walked over and peered inside. It was a tiny space, painted pale gray, and the furniture looked like it was a hundred years old. The bed had a chipped white metal frame, and the dresser was ancient and sturdy with two missing drawer pulls. “I hate to even suggest it, because it’s so small and plain.”

“Oh. Yes,” I said immediately. “This will be great.”

“Okay,” Laura said, fighting to keep the disappointment from turning down the corners of her lips. “The doctor thought it would be good for you girls to be near one another . . . but this is close enough.” Her tone veered toward doubt as she finished the sentence.

“We’ll be close,” I said quickly. “I’ll hardly spend any time in here. Only when I’m asleep. Mostly I’ll be . . . out there, right? With Agatha.”

This appeased her. “The light’s so pleasant in the main room, don’t you think?”

“Definitely,” I said, as if I’d taken any time to notice the quality of the light.

“All right,” she said. “There’s the bathroom, that door right there, and then if you want to unpack, you can put your things in the dresser and closet . . . goodness, is that all you’ve brought?”

She was staring at my two meager bags.

If she thought the bags were unimpressive, wait until she saw the clothes inside them. My shirts had come from the charity rack at Palmer House— misprints from a souvenir T-shirt factory, shirts whose decals had peeled off unevenly, leaving incomplete phrases like MIAM IS HOTTER THAN HO and I LFFT MY HEAPT IN FLORID.