At least my clothing needs could mostly be met by rummaging around in Mama’s drawers and her side of the closet. Pa hadn’t done away with anything of hers but didn’t seem to mind that some of her things had walked off. Each of us children had, at some point in the last three years, snuck in and swiped a memory.

Boss kept Mama’s robe tucked underneath his pillow. Raleigh had a mostly empty bottle of her honeysuckle lotion sitting on top of his dresser. I’d caught a glimpse of him sniffing it a time or two on shadowy Pa days, with his patchwork baby blanket clutched to his chest. It was the same blanket made by Mama that we older children had been swaddled in until Raleigh claimed it and wouldn’t let it move past his infant season. We all grieved for Mama and dealt with Pa’s madness in private ways, so I’d always backed away from his bedroom door without saying a word. I had placed several framed pictures of Mama around the younger twins’ room, so they would at least know what she looked like. I knew Peg had swiped something, but I’d yet to discover what it was, and he wouldn’t let it be known unless he wanted to, anyway.

Earlier today, I’d ventured into the small selection of dresses in my parents’ closet for the first time, and I was still uncertain that it was a good idea as I fastened the last of the tiny pearl buttons lining the front of the ankle-length dress. The bodice was fitted and the skirt flared, giving the illusion that my boyish frame held a few feminine curves. I smoothed a palm over the silky material and angled sideways to inspect myself in the antique cheval mirror in the corner of Charlotte’s room. The mirror was her item of choice that had belonged to Mama and I thought it was fitting for my prissy sister to have it.

“It’s very festive,” Charlotte commented.

I gave the red dress with tiny white polka dots one last look before turning to find six sets of gawking eyes trained on me. Giving myself another once-over in the mirror, I found nothing out of place. The dress was buttoned properly and the hem wasn’t hung up in the back of my panties. The bobby pins were still holding the braided bun softly in place at the nape of my neck. The light dusting of blush and one swipe of mascara was the only makeup I allowed Charlotte to put on me, so there was no clown resemblance.

I turned to the wide-eyed bunch and held my arms out. “What?”

“You look like a real lady,” Raleigh answered, awe and wonder in his voice.

Nash tugged on the skirt to get my attention. “You real purty.”