Courtesy of the extreme restraint of the creditors represented by Mr Pallworthy, Alice was allowed to pack two trunks full of her clothes, books, and a few odds and ends, after one of the lawyers had looked them over to make sure there was nothing too expensive among them. She tucked the threadbare rabbits deep inside the trunk, underneath her nightshirts. She knew it was childish, but it made her feel better; and anyway, she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving them for Mr Pallworthy to throw away. The picture of her grandmother stayed – it had been taken by someone famous, apparently, and would have to be auctioned – so Alice stared at her for a few moments in silent farewell before letting a lawyer escort her to the door.

A footman in a big black Ford delivered her to Penn Station, and handed her an envelope containing a one-way, coach-class ticket to Pittsburgh, a local ticket to a station called North Landing, and two ten-dollar bills. She had to break one of these almost immediately, at the station ticket window, in order make change to tip the porters who dragged her trunks down to the side of the track.

The long ride on the train barely registered. She spent it with her chin in her hands, staring blindly out the window as endless farms and pastures rolled past and the sun crossed overhead and sank behind the western horizon. The other passengers in her compartment, as though by common agreement, struck up a lively conversation and completely ignored the gloomy girl in the mourning dress.

Alice’s father had taught her that when she had problems, she ought to list them carefully, one by one, and see what could be done about them. She did this now, using an imaginary pencil and the endless Pennsylvania farmland as a sketchpad.

The first problem was, Alice felt like she was living in a dream. Ever since the night in the kitchen, when she’d watched her father arguing with a fairy, the world had acquired a dangerously thin quality, as though it were only as substantial as a soap bubble.

The second problem was, Alice hadn’t cried when she’d read the newspaper. She hadn’t cried when the telegrams had arrived, or all the way through the funeral. She hadn’t cried when Miss Juniper hugged her goodbye, though the tutor’s eyes had been brim-full of tears. She certainly hadn’t cried while the flocks of vultures picked through the house. She kept expecting to, but she hadn’t.