She viewed the tattered cover as if it were a hallowed scroll. But after opening the book with string still in hand, she stopped. “I…can’t read any of it though.”

Oh, bother. I’d forgotten.

“Not yet,” I said, “but you’ll learn. In some fancy school, I’d bet. And with a teacher who’d even know how to help you see letters the right way.” That was one skill she’d unlikely gain here, along with countless others. “In the meantime, the book’s got loads of drawings to follow. And just think, as soon as you’re settled, you can start your own show if you want.”

I expected that final bit to cheer her, sufficient bait for taking the leap. Rather, she slumped and dropped her gaze. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

My mind was scouring for points of persuasion when the dark pluming inside me returned, too strong to ignore, and the full source of my feelings registered. It wasn’t so much jealousy as grief. I was about to lose Poppy, the one dear person I had left.

Unless…

We devised a plan.

Would that lovely couple be as eager to take home a child who burst into a tantrum? What if Poppy kicked and clawed, screamed and spat, flatly refusing to go? It just might be that easy. Then she and I could grow up here together, even continue as roommates. I could tell her stories of the outside world, nurture her like kin. We could be a family, the two of us, and never again be alone.

I verged on explaining, optimism growing, but then her eyes raised to mine. She was asking for encouragement, affirmation. The kind you rely on from an older sister.

My plan stalled in my throat, snared by my conscience. For I knew in my heart: in the same way she was clinging to that string, for selfish reasons, I’d be doing the same to her.

Poppy wouldn’t be alone; she’d have her own family. And they were waiting for her downstairs. Stowing my own wants, I mustered an assured tone. “You’re ready. I promise.”

Because, in all truth, she was.

Her face became pensive. But then she gave an appreciative nod and wrapped me in a hug that she couldn’t have known how much I needed.

Or maybe she did.

***

As decreed by Mrs. Atwood, Poppy’s adoption was not only cause to celebrate but also to bolster each of us with hope. Not everyone saw it that way. A girl named Ingrid least of all.