Lizzie’s frown turned sad, which wasn’t what I wanted either.

“But he says I should make up my own mind. About God and Heaven. That’s why we go to church.” Her face relaxed, and I decided to get back to an easier conversation. “My best place is Sunnyside,” I said. “In the Scriptorium. Then in your room, then in the kitchen when Mrs. Ballard is baking, especially when she’s baking spotted scones.”

“You’re a funny little thing, Essymay—they’re called fruit scones; the spots are raisins.”

Da said Lizzie was no more than a child herself. When he was talking to her, I could see it. She stood as still as she could, holding her hands so they wouldn’t fidget, and nodding at everything with barely a word. She must have been scared of him, I thought, the way I was scared of Dr. Murray. But when Da was gone, she’d look at me sideways and wink.

As we lay on the grass with the world spinning above our heads, she suddenly leaned over and pulled a flower from behind my ear. Like a magician.

“I have a secret,” I told her.

“And what would that be, me little cabbage?”

“I can’t tell you here. It might blow away.”

We tip-toed through the kitchen towards the narrow stairs that led to Lizzie’s room. Mrs. Ballard was bent over a flour bin in the pantry and all I saw of her was her very large behind, draped in folds of navy gingham. If she saw us, she’d find something for Lizzie to do and my secret would have to wait. I put a finger to my lips but a giggle rose in my throat. Lizzie saw it coming, so she scooped me into her bony arms and trotted up the stairs.

The room was cold. Lizzie took the coverlet off her bed and laid it on the bare floor like a rug. I wondered if there were any Murray children in the room on the other side of Lizzie’s wall. It was the nursery, and we sometimes heard little Jowett crying, but not for long. Mrs. Murray would come soon enough, or one of the older children. I tilted my ear towards the wall and heard the baby’s waking noises, little sounds that were not quite words. I imagined him opening his eyes and realising he was alone. He whimpered for a while, then cried. This time it was Hilda who came. When the crying stopped, I recognised the tinkle of her voice. She was thirteen, like Lizzie, and her littlest sisters, Elsie and Rosfrith, were never far behind her. When I sat on the rug with Lizzie, I imagined them all doing the same on the other side of the wall. I wondered what game they might play.