Hubert Netherbury’s voice called out from the drawing room as Lotti reached the stairs. Lotti froze.

“In here, Charlotte, please.”

And perhaps, if Lotti was suitably apologetic, Uncle Hubert would not be so very angry that she was late … perhaps Aunt Vera would not notice Lotti’s sodden clothes, the tear in her sailor suit, her hair wild from the wind and rain …

Lotti walked slowly toward the drawing room.

Hubert Netherbury sat in Papa’s chair by the fire, a glass of sherry in his hand. One glance at his thin, pressed mouth told Lotti that he was furious, but he said nothing, didn’t even look at her, just waited for her to stammer an excuse.

“I was out walking.” Lotti stared at the carpet as she spoke, and how surprised Ben would have been to see her now—Lotti the dog rescuer, the housebreaker, barely able to speak!

This was what she hated most about her uncle, how small he made her feel.

“I’m sorry I’m late, I lost track of time.”

“Charlotte, your clothes …” Vera Netherbury spoke in a hushed, reproachful voice, as if the sight of Lotti gave her physical pain. “Your hair …”

Lotti glanced up at her aunt and flushed with rage. She was wearing one of Mama’s favorite shawls, an extravagant blue cashmere embroidered with butterflies with a deep silk fringe. On lovely Isobel St. Rémy, it had looked beautiful. On mean Vera Netherbury, it was hateful and absurd.

“I got caught in the rain,” muttered Lotti, failing to sound apologetic.

Hubert Netherbury toyed with his sherry glass, then very delicately put it down and flexed his hand. Lotti, remembering the slap at Great Barton station, flinched and looked at the carpet again.

“Be very careful, Charlotte,” said her uncle softly. “Or I may change my mind about not sending you away to school.”

“I’m sorry, Uncle,” whispered Lotti. “I won’t be late again.”

“No, you won’t. Now get out of my sight.”

Lotti fled.

Up in her room, Lotti threw herself on the bed and punched the mattress. How did her uncle make her feel like this, so wretched, with so few words? She had been wrong, so wrong, to come home! She should have stayed at school! Except … the lovely hills around Barton Lacey, the memories of Mama and Papa … and now the Sparrowhawk, and Ben, and most of all Federico. Federico, who was now her responsibility, who she had already let down by appearing as such a disheveled mess before her uncle and aunt … what would happen to him if she was sent away to school? Who would look after him?

Moune. The thought came from nowhere, but that was hopeless of course, because as well as Moune being far away in France, there was the awful and terrible fact of her silence …

Oh, what should she do?

The door opened and Sally came in, carrying a basin.