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my arm, I swear I see it wink at me. Back in Mother’s bedroom, I hold it against me in front of the vanity mirror.
    Mother’s taller than I am, and fuller in places a tomboy like me can only dream about. I change out of my things and slip the gown over my head.
    The sensation is indescribable, like a hundred caresses. I shrug the shoulders snug, give the sides a little tug, and again look in the mirror.
    Not possible! It fits me
perfectly
, taken in where I’m smaller, tucked where I’m narrower. Even the length has been altered as though by invisible hands.
    “Mother?” I whisper.
    I sit down on the bed and stare at her portrait.
    I remember looking at the picture that long-ago night, half thinking it was the painting of a goddess, a mischievous one, with just the slightest smile tweaking the corners of her mouth. She stands straight, her white neck elegantly long, one hand resting on a pedestal, the other holding a black rose.
    In the shadows behind her—I hadn’t noticed this before—there’s a tall mirror on a stand, but turned away from us, perhaps reflecting the moon in the painting’s background.
    I stare at her face, at her eyes, at the black rose she holds so lightly in her hand.
    Black rose, white rose.
    Mother, who
are
you?

Chapter Eight
    It’s my birthday today. Well, well.
    In celebration, Miss Porlock and I are out on the town, a great concession on Uncle Asa’s part. Truth is, if it weren’t for Miss P., there wouldn’t be a celebration at all. Every year, she appears in my sitting room, holding a tart with a candle in it, and sings her little song. Then it’s off on an excursion somewhere. One time, it was a carriage ride in the country, another time a picnic by the cliff. It’s a chance for her to talk about important things—Romantic poetry, fabrics for dresses, and the princes I will someday marry.
    I remember only one birthday that didn’t have the Porlock touch. I must have been five or six. Mother threw an extravagant party, importing children I didn’t know from the village, showering me with presents, and performingmagic tricks. I got overexcited and came down with a fever that night.
    And that was it, as far as Mother was concerned. I don’t think it occurred to her that this was something that should happen again. It was a sort of motherly meteor shower.
    But this year, says Miss P., I have an important birthday. I’m turning thirteen, and I deserve something special. A closed carriage takes us to Pendleton’s, a dry-goods emporium in the better part of town, where my tutor makes an examination of all the fabrics in from London, asks my opinion, then disregards my advice. It is her chance to play the great lady, and I wouldn’t deny her a minute of it.
    She tells me to pick out anything I want, anything at all. The place is full of so many things that I’m sure I’ll find something wonderful. Turns out they’re wonderful if you’re Miss Porlock’s age. I finally find a charm bracelet I like, and she buys it for me.
    Soon she’s lost in reverie among the shawls, arranging one around her broad shoulders and making a coquettish turn before the mirror.
    “What do you think?” she asks about a blue paisley.
    “Perfect!”
    “I don’t know. I don’t think it goes with my coloring.”
    Miss Porlock doesn’t have coloring, unless you count gray. Still, it touches me to think Edna Porlock was once a girl hoping to be pretty.
    From Pendleton’s, it’s to the pharmacy for Miss P.’seyedrops and anti-itch cream, then to the tea shop for a treat. My tutor sheds her cape but keeps on the shawl, the blue paisley one. She couldn’t resist it and now can’t be parted from it.
    The scones here are actually good (well, compared to Miss P.’s ginger cookies), and I’m allowed—because it’s my birthday and my companion is feeling so devil-may-care—a strawberry ice, topped with whipped cream.
    The light outside the window begins to lower, and the passersby step a little