Mary leafed through them. As her eyes raced over the words, she realized they were all from her mother to her aunt. But why had they been hidden away? As she read some of the passages, she began to understand. The letters were between two sisters who kept no secrets from each other. They talked about their lives, their children, their husbands, in a way that they would not have wanted anyone else to see. Mary skipped over the bits about life in India, about her and her father, her eyes seeking out the passages where her mother talked about Grace’s illness, Colin, Archie . . . It was strange to imagine her forbidding uncle ever being called by such an informal name.

Outside, the sky darkened, the sun set, and the moon rose. Mary turned on her bedside lamp and carried on reading the letters in bed, putting things together, starting to make sense of some of the mysteries that surrounded her. She only looked up from them when she heard faint screams. She swallowed, her fingers tightening on the letter she was holding. Colin. He would be wondering why she didn’t go to visit him as usual. She glared at the locked door, longing to get out.

Mary fell asleep fully clothed. She only woke in the morning when Martha came in with a tray. Mary hastily shoved the letters under her bedcovers. To her relief, Martha was too busy looking at the overturned rocking horse to notice.

“What’s been going on here, then?” she said. Not waiting for an answer, she heaved the horse up and pushed it back into its place. “Mrs. Medlock’s in a right rage with you,” she said to Mary. “There’s just stale bread for breakfast, no porridge.”

“I don’t care,” said Mary defiantly. “How long is she planning on keeping me prisoner?”

Martha’s mouth twitched. “Hark at you. You’re no prisoner. I’m to leave your room unlocked when I’ve finished, but if I were you, I’d stay out of everyone’s way.”

Mary felt a rush of relief. She could leave her room and go to the garden. She could see Colin and Dickon. She jumped up and hugged Martha.

Martha gasped in surprise. “Let me go, miss—you’re fair squeezing me to death!” But as Mary drew back, she saw the smile on Martha’s face.

“I’ll make my bed,” Mary said hastily as Martha went over to the rumpled sheets.

“You can’t do that, miss,” Martha protested.

“Oh, yes I can.” Mary pushed Martha toward the door. “In fact, I order you to leave it.” She smiled. “You can go now.”

Shaking her head as if she didn’t know what to make of her, Martha left.