Although ancient, the doll’s house was beautifully constructed. Paint peeled on the roof and on the splintered walls. It was a portion of Iskar, its black windows caked in grime. I tugged at the hinged front and it opened to Iskar’s drawing room with chaise longue and even a tiny cage of stuffed birds. I studied it, fascinated. The library, the parlour, the morning room were all there, as was a great kitchen with miniature copper pans hanging from racks. I did not have time to linger in wonderment. The house even had attics, and it was in one of these that I found the dolls – stiff and dusty and repulsive to me. I reached and plucked one out. Like the others, it was strangely warm and I swallowed a lump of disgust.

They were dressed in clothing of an earlier age but there could be no doubt that the ones that had appeared throughout the house came from the same family. But why was it hidden so? Surely this had belonged to Evangeline and Miss Gillies. And by the worn furnishings, it must have been greatly loved. Why had it not passed to Mary?

I rested on my haunches as the doubts and questions came creeping. Who now could be responsible for the dolls in my room but Greer? I imagined her thick fingers filing at the wood with slow enmity.

I leaned in further and there, beneath one of the beds, were two more dolls and I was seized with fear. There could be no doubt as to who they represented: one was myself and the other Mary.

With a gasp, I sat back. What should I do? But the answer was already in my head – I reached in and took them, then collected the rest lest Greer should fashion more.

It was as I rose from my knees that my eyes found it, laid on the floor of one of the rooms – the widows’ whistle. I hesitated, but only for a moment, and then I took that too.

I hid my finds in various places in the spare rooms that lined my corridor. It would take hours for Greer to find each one, if she decided to search. All evening, I was aware of what I had done and one minute I experienced a strange elation and the next a crushing anxiety. When Greer next went to the doll’s house to execute one of her schemes, she would find what was missing and guess that it was me.

That night, I lit candles and lay down, watching light flicker on the walls. Perhaps, at least, Hettie would not come. Had I not taken the widows’ whistle? But as I lay there, my skin tight from fear and some exhilaration, her step and lullaby came anyway and I buried my face to the pillow, hand to my ears, until, when I took them away, there was silence once again.

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