The word “home” sent a cold chill through me. Where was my home? I was satisfied it was Ireland because I had an Irish brogue, but whereabouts? The Teresa one had said I was from Donegal. What was the truth?

For the rest of the day I distracted myself exploring the house and grounds. Teresa, a sour look on her face, took me to every room on every floor of the house, including the rooms on the third floor, where she and Beatrice slept. Those rooms were tiny and made me feel a bit suffocated. I wondered how they could stand them. But the other bedrooms, including the one I slept in, were big and bright and airy, with lovely, oak-carved furniture, velvet curtains and patterned rugs. I tried not to open my mouth too much or stare, but inside I was trembling. This place was like a palace. Was it possible I grew up like this? If I had, it was hard for me to believe it.

The house began to bear down on me like a heavy blanket, and I was glad when we went outside. It was a lovely day, with a light breeze and not too warm. Teresa didn’t say much, but when she did, I paid more heed to her brogue than to her words. For some reason, I took great comfort in listening to her Irish accent.

I had seen the tall trees on either side of the lane when we drove in the day before, but I had not been ready for the view at the back of the house. I followed Teresa around the corner, and my heart leaped out of my chest. A great expanse of smooth, green lawn gave way to woods and, on the far horizon, to hills covered in a lilac haze. Daffodils and peonies and white snapdragons dotted the pathways that crisscrossed the lawn. I had seen these flowers before somewhere, and I knew their names. A small thrill of joy lightened my step.

Teresa pointed her finger into the distance.

“Over there’s a lovely garden,” she said, “like the ones you’d see at home. There’s flowering bushes and benches and a swing. It’s nice and quiet and a grand place to get away to and think.”

A sudden image of a fair-haired girl sitting on the grass reading a book came into my mind. She was surrounded by a circle of white stones. She was lost in the book, as if nothing else around her mattered. I knew this girl, I was certain. But why couldn’t I remember her name?

When we got back to the house, Beatrice said Mrs. Shaw hadn’t returned yet. I took the chance to complain of a headache.

“I think I need to go and lie down,” I said. “Would that be all right? Will Mrs. Shaw mind?”