The housekeeper stopped outside a heavy wooden door. “And say nothing fanciful. He has enough concerns. And do not stare.” She knocked and a bell rang from the inside. Mrs. Medlock gave Mary a warning nod and then opened the study door.

Mary walked in bravely. The gloomy room was large and dark, heavy curtains partly pulled across the windows, shutting out the daylight. There was a huge desk at one end with a reading light on it, and the wall behind was completely covered with pictures and display cases containing stuffed animals and birds. Mary’s uncle was sitting at the desk.

“Come here, girl,” he commanded. “Into the light where I can see you.”

She stepped forward, her attention caught by his hunchback. She looked away quickly, her eyes falling on a photo on his desk in a silver frame. It was a picture of Aunt Grace and Colin when he was a little boy. Her uncle saw her looking at it and quickly turned it facedown.

He spoke gruffly. “Mrs. Medlock tells me you’re cluttering up the place. She would have me send you to school.”

Mary had never been to school, but she hated the thought of being surrounded by other children day and night. She spoke firmly. “I would not like that, sir. I like it here.”

Her uncle studied her. “Then we will find you a governess.”

“No, I have no need for a governess,” Mary said quickly. “I have too much to learn at Misselthwaite.” She paused and then added, “Sir.”

Her uncle frowned. “This house has nothing to teach a child.”

Mary knew she had to convince him not to send her away to school or to get a governess. “But I want to play out of doors and explore the grounds. It was too hot to do that in India.”

He tapped a pen on the desk. “Mary, I’m obliged by law to have you taught.”

Mary met his eyes. “Then we need to break the law, wouldn’t you say?”

Her uncle’s eyebrows rose slightly as their gazes locked. “Mrs. Medlock says she can see Alice—your mother—in you.”

“Did she like my mother?” Mary asked curiously. “For she doesn’t seem to like me.”

Her uncle didn’t answer her question. “It is not your mother I see,” he said finally, looking away quietly.

Mary frowned but then understood. “Do you mean I remind you of my aunt—your wife? My mother once told me that I was like my aunt, Grace, too.”

It was an extremely hazy memory. She had been very young and chasing a large butterfly, giggling and laughing. She could remember her mother scooping her up in her arms. “You are so like Grace, little Mary,” she had said, laughing. “I cannot wait for her to meet you!” It was the only time Mary could remember her mother hugging her.