Likewise, though more incriminating, the following day another bit of “proof” landed me in Mrs. Atwood’s office. A case of stolen chalk, thwarting morning lessons, had launched staff members on a building-wide search. White powdery handprints found on my valise left a convenient trail to the chalk planted inside.

“Think very carefully, Miss Vos.” Mrs. Atwood picked up her yardstick. “This is your final chance to come clean.”

My continued denial of guilt would earn ten lashes. An admission would reduce them by half.

I imagined Papa watching from heaven, how he would feel if, once more, I claimed fault that wasn’t mine, and what Father Lawrence would say about doing what’s right, most especially when things are hard.

Though dispirited, I girded myself and silently raised my palms.

There was frustration in Mrs. Atwood’s features, lined with reluctance as she began to strike. But even then, I held back the tears rimming my eyes. For setting them free would open a dam I suspected might never close.

***

“Time to get up!” A tug to my nightgown woke me to an exuberant round face. Agatha stood over me, fully dressed. “Remember? Today’s Easter.” Spaces from missing front teeth transformed the word into Easther. “We’re having flapjacks and marmalade and everything.”

I yawned and stretched, rustling the parchment paper beneath me. A humiliating reminder. Thankfully, Agatha was already scampering away with nervous Nellie, leaving the room vacant but for me.

I must have slept through the morning bell. Recalling the rules, I hurried to rise. Unless provably ill, arrivals past seven didn’t eat.

I knelt to retrieve my overalls from under my cot. But discovering a pair of boots in place of mine, I froze. Though appearing my size, these were brown and stained and scuffed. I didn’t need to rub the sleep from my eyes to know whose they were.

Ingrid had stolen my boots. My precious black-leather boots!

A flare of anger surged through my body, joined shortly by a torrent of panic.

Without my boots, my memory of receiving them—of Papa’s laugh and voice and embrace—was bound to slip away, along with my cherished thoughts of his patience that night. Never one to complain, he’d simply matched my pace walking home, slowed by my blisters born of stubbornness and pride.

Aside from his pocket watch and our single portrait, those boots were all I had left of him. Take any of them away, and my memories of him could swiftly fade. The possibility wasn’t unfounded. It had happened before—with my mother.

All at once, the dam burst. Tears poured from my eyes as I stormed from the room in my socks, not bothering to change clothes. I wove around girls straggling on the stairs, intent as a raging current.