A hot fat tear rolled down the side of my nose, and I scrubbed it away hard enough to make my cheek sting, the stench of pig on my fingers seeming worse than normal. My nails were cut down to the quick, but they still held dirt around the edges, and my palms were thick with callouses. The boots I’d inherited from my brother were crusted with mud, and I could smell farm and sweat rising from my dress. I didn’t feel like I was worth the effort of a trip across a field, much less the hours-long journey from the city.

Gran’s slippers brushed softly against the floor as she came around the table and sat next to me. Her thin arm wrapped around my shoulder, pulling me close. I resisted for a heartbeat, clinging to the remnants of my anger, but then I gave up and collapsed against her. “She isn’t coming, is she?” The words came out muffled from where my face pressed against her dress.

I felt rather than heard Gran sigh. “Oh, my sweet girl, there’s no telling what Genevieve will or won’t do. I gave up trying to understand that woman a long time ago.”

I stiffened. “She isn’t that woman, Gran. She’s my mother.”

She inhaled deeply, and I waited for her to launch into her usual tirade, but she stayed silent. Which was somehow worse. I’d always thought the warm feeling I got whenever Gran spoke out against my mother came from my righteous satisfaction at being able to defend her, but maybe that wasn’t it at all? Maybe what really fuelled the feeling was Gran’s assurance that it wasn’t our fault and that we deserved better. I bit my lip, wishing Gran would say Genevieve was a terrible mother, that she was selfish, that she wasn’t worthy of children like us.

But she said nothing at all; she wasn’t even looking at me. Her eyes were fixed on the fire, her normally smiling mouth turned ever so slightly down at the corners.

My heart began to beat harder in my chest, unease pricking at my skin. “It’s Joss’s fault.” I knew it wasn’t, but I hoped my accusation would provoke her into saying something. “She doesn’t even care.”

Gran met my gaze and sniffed disparagingly. “Is that what you think?” She shook her head slowly. “Your sister was barely more than a baby when you left Trianon. That city was never a home to her, and Genevieve has never been a mother to her. To your sister, that woman isn’t just a stranger, she’s a stranger who’s slowly pulling apart her family. She took back your brother, and now Joss is afraid she’ll take back you. And you’ve made it very clear to us that that is exactly what you want.”

I flinched, feeling the slow burn of shame rise on my cheeks, because I knew it was true. I did want to live with my mother in the city. How could I not? How much better a life would it be to live in her big home with new dresses, and servants, and no chores? And there was my most secret wish – the one I had never told anyone – that one day I too might be able to stand on stage and sing to adoring crowds. But now that dream seemed tarnished by selfishness, as though wanting to do something more than slop pigs and milk cows made me a bad sister, a bad granddaughter.