This hour was my best shot. Aside from restless infants upstairs and any staff tending to them, the whole place would be asleep. If I went now, I could hide in place before the cooks and truck rolled in.

Upon my cot, I slowly rose until a crinkling sounded. My parchment liner. I should have removed it in preparation. Moving in smaller increments, I listened for breaks in my roommates’ breathing.

Finally on my feet, I covered Poppy’s old pillow and my own with a blanket to craft a sleeping body. Then kneeling on the cold tiles, I retrieved my packed valise. With Ingrid’s shoes in hand, I mouthed goodbye to my slumbering roommates—though none were as precious as Poppy, most were accepting and kind—and off I crept toward the kitchen, where the laundry carts awaited pickup.

But first I’d reclaim what was mine.

At the last door in the hall, I set down my travel bag. The girls in the low-lit room outnumbered mine by more than double. A savvier escaper might have bypassed the errand, judging it a foolhardy risk despite the boots’ connection to my father.

They never knew Papa.

I tiptoed, hunched over—as if a stoop somehow muted my movements. Nearly at the targeted cot, the eighth one in, I noticed a girl missing:

Ingrid.

A frenetic glance around confirmed she was gone.

Was she escaping too? A doubtful coincidence. Probably just off to the bathroom and returning shortly.

In a cautious hurry, I swapped my black boots for her brown ones and padded back out. I could have taken both, but leaving her shoeless might draw her to my cot. And I’d rather the credit for discovering my absence go to anyone other than her.

As it turned out, that hope, for all its pettiness, was decimated by a feathery sound.

A breath.

Bent over my bag, clutching its wooden handles, I raised my head to find Ingrid.

She looked different in the shadows, disarmed in a way, dressed in a nightgown with hair frizzed and unbraided. But I knew better than to trust appearances. She of all people had taught me that.

I thought to spout an excuse, that I’d gotten up to use the toilet, same as her. Yet her eyes tightened at the items I held—my valise and boots—before her gaze slid past me, aimed at the staff’s quarters. Here was her chance to exact revenge. Another horrifying day of me locked in the cellar, maybe more, was a surety.

My gut churned. Any plea seemed futile, our history considered, but I had to try. I opened my mouth to speak just as her chin rose, a quick lift. A nod? With no other indication, she walked right by and entered her room.