I lift my pillow so that Jane will distract me from my thoughts. Jane will take me to a place where the naked trees shiver in the wind and where rivers freeze in the winter.

Wait one second . . .

I shift position to make sure I’m exactly where I was when I put Miss Eyre to bed. If I’d been in a hurry, the way that Lottie’s always in a hurry to find the right page and dive into the story, I might not have noticed that someone has moved my book.

She walks in and makes a sound that is half surprise and half apology. I’m furious. First, my underpants, which I gave to her to spite Delia and the others, and now my book, which I did not give her permission to touch, and at the rate that she reads, she might already know if Jane has left Lowood. Without me.

“Where are you up to?” I snap.

“I stopped where you stopped. Trus faith.”

“And how did you keep up with me?”

“I read while you were asleep and when you went to Saturday Scripture club to learn more Bible verses.” Lottie lets out a deep breath. “And just now, when you were in the washroom.”

“You stopped where I did?” That’s a big, fat lie. Once Lottie is inside a story, she reads till the end. She’s greedy that way.

“I did. Honest. It would be rude to go past where you are, to know what happens before you do.” Lottie throws herself onto her cot with a groan. “I can’t believe how slow you read. It’s excruciating.”

She’s the one who did wrong by touching my things, yet somehow I’m the one in the wrong? I am clever but ignorant. I read too slow. And now, thanks to reading through The Oxford Dictionary resting on top of our shared chest of drawers, she has new and better words to describe my faults and life in general. Homework is laborious. Mr. Newman, our lazy leans-too-close science teacher is a degenerate, and the sunset sky is suffused with color. Show-off.

“It’s excruciating how fast you read,” I say. “You miss all the details, and the story ends too quickly.”

To prove the point, I open the book and carefully set aside the bookmark. Lottie sits up: a bright-eyed puppy who might, if patient, be given something from the dinner table. She’s too proud to actually beg, though.

I like that about her.

I shift closer to the pillow, the same way that she moved closer to the window of the Ocean Current when Lazy-Eye Matthew croaked, “Adele. Adele,” to get me next to him in third class. Lottie accepts my silent invitation. The cot springs creak, and we lean our backs against the wall. I find my spot and, afraid that Lottie will race ahead and get to the good bits first, I read out loud.