And, of course, the letter I am holding, which I now realize is trembling in my hands. I begin to read the letter out loud to Sonny, who stops sniffing, lies down, tilts his head and lifts an ear as if he’s intently listening to every word:

“May 1892

“Dear Sir or Madam:

“I embrace this opportunity to communicate a few sentiments to you. Papa would propose that I am being hysterical, but Mama and I would propose that female hysteria is a myth proffered by society.

“The leaves are just budding out here in Michigan, tender Sprigs underfoot, and I expect this to be my final summer at Cottage.

“My name is Sadie Collins. I am seventeen and to be married this fall, and I want to weep not from Joy but Despair. I endeavor to study at University but Papa protests. He concludes I will not be Lost to the ‘Naughty Nineties’ but shall be a Wife. I find myself to be in a pickle.

“I also find myself, dear Sir or Madam, to be astonished by the World. It is in change just like the trees and the lake I spy coming to Life outside the Turret. But I feel as Frozen as the fish and the peaches Papa keeps on Ice here to keep our Family prosperous.

“I conclude I am Bless’d and that too many are poor as church mice, but should I not want to be a New Woman as Henry James writes? But, at night, when I gaze beyond the Turret, I know my Stars are cross-grain’d.

“Should you find this, dear Sir or Madam, remember me fondly as the Girl in the drawing and not as the one in Leg O’ Mutton sleeves. I humbly implore and petition you to care for this Cottage as if I still retired here every evening. Papa built this Cottage to be my Castle. It is now my Prison. Still, please, do not weep for me. That is not worth a button. Instead, I propose you paint your Cheeks with rouge, I Pray that you may seek your own Stars, and I endeavor that a Smile is forever upon your face.

“Yours very humbly,

Sadie”

“You wanted to look at life for yourself—but you were not allowed; you were punished for your wish. You were ground in the very mill of the conventional.”

—Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady

I am weeping uncontrollably. One fat tear plops onto the bottom of the letter, immediately crumbling the paper and the tall, stiff cursive upon it.

“No!” I wail, which startles Sonny, who stands and begins to lick my tears.

I look at the remnants of a young woman’s life that was not entirely her own.

What became of her? I wonder. Did she find happiness? Was it possible to find happiness?

“I am not a victim,” I say out loud to Sonny. “We are no longer victims.”

Sonny barks.