I tried on one of the loafers and was surprised to find that it not only fit but also seemed like it had been made for my foot. The leather was supple and soft, and it felt more like wearing a sock than a shoe.

I examined the clothes one piece at a time, and decided in a rush that felt like an impulsive, dangerous choice that I would keep and wear it all. Who cared if it wasn’t my style? No one was around to judge me. And how could I possibly reject such a generous gift?

Still, it was with great relief that I found a small pile of jeans folded under the sweaters. They were made of stretchy denim, and the cuts were slim, but not tight—far from trendy, but they would do. I pulled on a pair and chose a light pink sweater. I’d noticed that Laura kept the house cool, the air conditioners running almost constantly—an extravagance that would have scandalized my own mother.

I didn’t own any makeup besides a single tinted lip balm and a tube of mascara I’d impulse-bought on a trip to the grocery store. There didn’t seem to be much use for eye makeup here—I didn’t want Laura to think I was trying to look glamorous or anything—but I brushed my hair and balmed my lips and put on a pair of white socks. I carefully made my bed, sitting Blue Bunny up against the pillow. Then I took a deep breath and headed out into the hall.

Feeling less overwhelmed than I had the previous day, I went slowly toward the stairs. I studied everything from the burgundy wallpaper, with its design of delicate flowers in faded tints of orange and gold, their long stems intertwined, to the opulent brass light fixtures hanging from the ceiling, with frosted glass bowls hiding the bulbs.

Hung on the walls between the doors were a number of oil paintings. They depicted people and life from at least a hundred years ago, including a portrait of a woman in a lace-collared black dress with a tiny black cap and a sheer black veil trailing down from the back of her head. Her eyes were large and soft and hazy with sorrow.

A small brass plate was affixed to the wall under the bottom left side of the frame.

THE WIDOW COPELAND—CIRCA 1884, it read.

I gazed around the somber corridor. How spooky and strange to be a child in this house.

As I reached the top of the stairs, a cheery voice shocked me out of my reverie.

“Hey! She’s awake!”