Mary realized that Martha was still upset with her. She wondered how she could get back the friendly Martha from the day before. Climbing out of bed, she knelt beside her. “Is there an order to how you put the fire together?” she asked.

“Yes, miss,” said Martha, not looking at her as she started to put coal on the layer of paper.

Mary picked up a piece of coal. Its black coating stained her fingers, and the dust dropped onto the rug.

“Oh, miss, please don’t!” exclaimed Martha, sounding exasperated. “You’ll spoil the rug and your dress, and it’ll be me who has to clean both.”

Mary sighed. Helping Martha didn’t seem to be making the maid any friendlier. She gave up, sat back on her heels, and changed the subject. “Martha. The noises I hear in the night—do dead soldiers haunt this house?”

For a second, Mary was sure she saw a look of alarm in the maid’s eyes. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you hear noises, then just turn over and go back to sleep. That’s the best thing to do.”

Mary was certain Martha knew more than she was admitting. She watched as Martha lit the fire in silence and then went to the door without saying another word.

Anger and unhappiness rushed through Mary at the thought of being left on her own again. “I didn’t ask to be here, you know!” she burst out angrily.

Martha looked back. “And Mr. Craven didn’t ask to take you in, but he did all the same,” she said calmly but firmly, and then she was gone, shutting the door behind her.

Mary stamped her foot. It seemed like the one person who might have talked to her in this dismal place now didn’t want to. She glared at the closed door, feeling lonelier than she had ever felt in her life.

Later that morning, Mary put on her outdoor boots, a new warm blue coat, and matching hat and paid another visit to the kitchen.

“Mrs. Pitcher,” she said to the cook, “you gave me sandwiches yesterday for my luncheon. I need the same meat in my sandwiches today.” She hesitated. “Please?” she added, remembering her manners.

Mrs. Pitcher gave her a surprised look and then nodded and took a loaf of bread from the counter.

“What is the meat you put inside the sandwiches?” Mary asked curiously, watching her.

“Spam,” said Mrs. Pitcher.

“Spam?” echoed Mary, trying out the unfamiliar word.

The cook chuckled. “Yes, Spam.” She quickly made the sandwiches. “Now go on, away with you,” she said, shooing her out of the kitchen.