They kept her in a basement, in blackness, and by the time the social workers found her, she’d learned to sing.

They said I was mute, but I wasn’t mute. I’d just never learned their words. They kept putting me in and out of foster homes, but I never forgot—

She leaned forward, further, staring at the lake.

Where’s that swan? she said, and then she bit her lip.

She stood up, started walking toward the lake, and then suddenly turned, just as she had in the Blue House. She came back to me.

Where are you going? she demanded.

I don’t know, home, I guess.

No, I mean, with your life. ’Cause I’m going to Crete to find my dad. No one here knows him, but over in Europe, he’s really famous. Do you want to come? We can hitchhike, over to England, and then we’ll go to Crete.

Her plan sounded really possible, the way she said it: Hitchhike over to England, and then we’ll go to Crete.

Everyone I knew—Ivy, China, even Dean—they had all left Victoria, and so, now, at last, I could leave too. Why not? I didn’t really know anything about Europe, but I thought those Europeans had been in a lot of wars and could use my nursing expertise.

Look, she said, see that swan? That’s right where I was when I was stolen.

I saw the long curve of the neck and the white wings, lifting. Then the swan was in the reeds, and I felt this strange sadness in my chest.

How are we going to leave? I said.

I know this old guy Barnett. He’ll give us a drive to the ferry if I bring him some off-sales. I can always get off-sales at the King’s.

I noticed she was shivering then. I’d never seen anyone shiver like her. The dress had slipped from her shoulders, and they were wet with rain.

Here, I said, handing her China’s coat. She stroked the fur for a few seconds, but she didn’t take the coat. I’m used to being cold, she said, I’m cold all the time.

Now, they keep asking me if I saw anything violent in her, but I really didn’t. She just looked so cold, and when she held the fur coat to her chest, her neck rose out of the whiteness, slim as the swan’s.

As we were leaving, I saw a sign rammed in the grass. FOUNTAIN LAKE, the sign said. So what. So she’d made up her own name. Why did it matter? I liked her name better than the one on their sign.

I thought, What did it matter? Forsaken was a better word than fountain. Her word was better than the word the world had chosen to display.

But if I told the cops where we were, they would say that there is no such place as the Lake of Forsaken Orphans, and we find it on no map, young lady.