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that so,” her stepmother murmured. If she was surprised by Clara’s outburst it did not show in her expression. If anything she looked amused, which only served to fuel Clara’s temper. Tears burned the corners of her eyes as she shot up out of her chair.
    “I hate you!” she cried. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you !” Choking back a sob she turned and fled from the sunroom, the soft soles of her shoes echoing on the hardwood. Not knowing what to do or where to go, she ran out the front door, leaving it swinging in her wake as she dashed down the steps and headed straight for the barn.
    Her pony had already been turned out for the day, but it did not take Clara long to find her. Buttercup’s favorite thing to do was take naps beneath an old oak tree on the far side of the pasture. She lifted her head when Clara approached, fuzzy ears swiveling to and fro as though she sensed something was not right even before Clara collapsed on the ground in front of her and threw her arms around the pony’s soft neck.
    “Oh Buttercup,” Clara sniffled as she buried her face in the pony’s long golden mane. “What am I going to do?”
    She had not meant to say such awful things to her stepmother. Things that she could not take back. But she had been so very angry! And she had wanted to make Lady Irene hurt as she had been hurt. Except now she felt nothing but sadness and guilt for her young heart, though impulsive, was also good and pure and unaccustomed to housing such wicked thoughts and dark feelings.
    Her father had always encouraged her to speak her mind and voice her opinion. ‘ Brains over beauty ’, he’d been fond of saying. ‘Any woman can be beautiful for beauty is something given to you, but intelligence is something you must earn all on your own.’ And while Clara had certainly voiced her opinion, she had not done so in a very intelligent way. She had let her emotions get the best of her and as they often did they had led her down a very steep, very treacherous path. If Lady Irene had treated her so abysmally before her outburst, what would she do after?
    “Lock me in my room for an entire month,” Clara said glumly as she lifted her head off Buttercup’s mane. Craning her neck around the pony nibbled at Clara’s hands, searching for peppermints. When she didn’t find any she yawned, blinked her doe brown eyes, and promptly fell back asleep.
    Wanting to delay her return to the house for as long as possible, Clara spent the next few hours dozing with her pony in the shade. The air was heavy with the scent of honeysuckle and a light breeze stirred, keeping the pesky flies away. She woke when she heard someone calling her name.
    Buttercup stood up when she did, shook herself like a dog, and searched Clara’s hands one last time before wandering off to graze in the sun. Recognizing the voice that was calling her, Clara gave her skirts a quick shake and hurried to the edge of the fence.
    “Here I am, Agnes!” she called, waving her arms to get the maid’s attention. “Over here.”
    “There you are.” Visible relief flickered across the older woman’s face as she walked around the side of the barn and saw Clara standing inside the pasture. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, young lady. Come quickly now. Lady Irene needs to – to speak with you.”
    Clara did not think anything of the faint quiver in Agnes’ voice until she’d ducked under the fence and saw the maid’s eyes were glassy with tears. “Agnes?” she said, her brow furrowing with confusion and concern. “What is it? What is the matter?” When Agnes did not immediately answer her mind drew the worst possible conclusion she could think of. “Has Lady Irene let you go? Because she cannot do that! Father would never let her. When he returns everything will be right again, Agnes. You’ll see.” She wrapped her arms around the maid and squeezed her tight.
    When Clara was a little girl her head had barely reached Agnes’ soft