When Mary fell asleep, images filled her head—flashes of the secret garden, the dog, the robin . . . She was running through the flower beds. The weeds had gone, and they were now filled with enormous bright flowers . . . and as she burst through them, she was suddenly in India again. Daddy was chasing her, pretending to be a monster, and she was giggling with delight. . . . Now she was sitting on the veranda. She had an exercise book on her knee, and it was filled with writing. The door opened, and through it she could see her mother lying on a daybed. Their eyes met, and Mary felt a surge of hope. Maybe this time Mother would see her?

“I have written a story, Mother!” she called, going to the door. “Can I read it to you?”

“No, Mary. Not now. Please go away,” her mother said wearily. “I need peace and quiet.”

“But, Mother, I wrote it for you. . . .”

Her mother motioned to a servant in the room, and the door was shut in Mary’s face.

She hates me, Mary thought, two tears escaping and spilling down her cheeks.

“Mary?” It was her father. He jumped up onto the veranda and saw her tears. “Oh, monkey,” he said, wiping them away with his thumb. “Did you want to see Mother?” Mary nodded and he sighed. “She . . . she can’t see you at the moment. She’s sad.”

“But I could try and make her happy, Daddy,” said Mary.

He gave her a rueful smile. “I’m afraid that’s not going to work, monkey. Seeing you makes her feel worse. Try not to take it to heart.”

Mary didn’t understand. Why would the sight of her make her mother feel worse?

“Your mother is sick,” her father went on sadly. “So sick.”

Mary scowled. “I wish she’d just get on and die and leave us all alone!”

“Mary, you mustn’t speak like that!” her father said sharply. “Now be a good girl and run along. I need to go to work.”

Mary had held in her tears. She would be a good girl like her father asked because, if she wasn’t, well, maybe Daddy would start shutting doors on her and stop loving her too.

Mary woke to the sound of Martha cleaning out the grate in the fireplace. “Morning, miss,” she said, giving Mary a friendly smile as Mary sat up in bed.

“Good morning, Martha,” said Mary. She watched the maid work for a moment. “Martha? Have you worked here long?”

“Ever since I were twelve, miss. I started here as a scullery maid. Things were very different back in them days. There were scullery maids and parlor maids, footmen, a butler, stable boys.” She shook her head. “They were different times, miss.”

“Before the war,” said Mary.

“And before the mistress died,” said Martha quietly. “It’s hard to believe now, but this house was once filled with light, laughter, happiness.”