There was a sudden noisy clatter overhead, and Mary’s nerve failed her. Turning, she sprinted back along the corridor as if a whole army of phantoms were after her. She dived into her bedroom and slammed the door shut, leaning against it and gasping for breath. As her breathing calmed, she hurried to her bed, pulled the coverlet over her head, and shut her eyes. She didn’t open them again until morning.

When Mary woke next, she saw that light was shining around the edges of the heavy curtains. Had her nighttime adventure really happened?

She got out of bed, pulled open the curtains, and saw that her room looked out onto the sweeping driveway and, beyond the driveway, out onto the misty moors. As Mary watched, a man came out of the house, dragging an old iron bedframe behind him. He flung it onto the gravel. He was about as old as her father and was wearing dark trousers and a waistcoat over a shirt with rolled-up sleeves. His face was craggy and sad, etched with deep wrinkles, and his hair was messy.

That must be my uncle, Mary thought.

There was something odd about him. It was his back, she realized. He had a hump on his shoulders that made him bend over slightly at the waist. Mrs. Medlock’s strange words—you’re not to stare, girl—suddenly made sense. Mary peered down with interest, wondering why no one had ever told her that her uncle was a hunchback. She wouldn’t have minded. She had once read a story about a man with a crooked back who had married a beautiful princess whom he had loved very much.

He hurried back into the house and reappeared a minute later, dragging another bed. This time Mrs. Medlock was with him.

“Sir!” she exclaimed. “Please leave the beds. The army will come and collect them. You don’t need to do this.”

“It needs sorting out,” he said stubbornly.

“I know but not like this. You’ll do yourself an injury. Please, sir, come back inside.” Mrs. Medlock gave him a pleading look. Mary saw her uncle run a hand through his hair and then give in. As he started to follow Mrs. Medlock back into the house, he glanced up toward Mary’s window. Mary ducked down, not wanting him to see she had been spying on him. She retreated back into her room, thinking about the lines etched in her uncle’s face. He wasn’t very old, but he looked like someone who had suffered.

Just then, the bedroom door opened and a maid came in. She was neatly dressed in a gray dress buttoned up to the neck and looked about twenty. Her thick dark hair was tied back tidily in a low bun, and she was carrying a tray with a bowl of porridge on it.

Mary wondered why the maid hadn’t knocked before entering. “Who are you?”