Looking around the vast room, Mary felt very small. There was an iron bed with a thin cover and one thin pillow. Next to it was a bedside cabinet with a single lamp. The floor was just bare wooden boards with a couple of threadbare rugs, and the walls were covered with fading wallpaper painted with trees and birds. There was a huge window with long, heavy curtains on either side, a small fire burning in the grate, and an old rocking horse and a battered toy chest.

So this is my new bedroom, Mary thought, looking around at the shabby, old-fashioned things. No, I will not cry, she thought fiercely as she felt her throat tighten. She wondered about her uncle. She had thought she would be introduced to him when she arrived, but maybe he didn’t want to see her. Mrs. Medlock’s words had certainly given her the impression that he hadn’t wanted her to come to Misselthwaite.

No one wants me, she thought, her heart swelling with a desperate loneliness. No one likes me. Everyone probably wishes I had died in India.

She took off her boots and coat and got under the thin embroidered coverlet of the bed, drawing her knees up to her chest. She thought of India—the sunshine, the bright red and yellow orchids that bloomed after the rain, the monkeys in the trees, the ripe mangoes; Daddy swinging her around in his arms and calling her his little monkey; her ayah smiling fondly at her, happy to bring the little Miss Sahib whatever she wanted.

I want to go back, Mary thought longingly. To my home, to the sunshine and the flowers. I want to wake up and see Daddy and Ayah and for this all to be a terrible nightmare.

A little voice piped up inside her. But it isn’t a nightmare. It’s real, and it all happened because of the wish you made. . . .

No! She didn’t want to think about that.

Staring hard at the embroidered flowers on the coverlet, Mary made herself imagine they were real flowers, vibrant and sweet-smelling. As her imagination began to work its magic, they seemed to brighten and grow in front of her eyes, moving, bending, sweeping her far, far away. . . .

Mary was back in her garden in India. It was part dream, part memory from a year ago. She ran toward the palm tree, her legs pounding. She’d climbed it the day before. For the first time, she’d got up it by herself, and now she wanted her mother to see. She wanted her to be proud of her! Glancing back at the villa, she saw her mother walking along the veranda, one hand on her forehead, her head bowed.