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of Birmingham, in sight of the River Cole and the Warwick Canal. It was a large, old, rectangular farmhouse of gray stone, with white-painted shutters and a slate roof. The school and all its miseries receded into the darkness behind her as Miranda raced away through the fields north of the village.
    The clear December evening was so still it seemed to be holding its breath. The cold was sharp, but the silver gleam of moon and stars glittered magically on the snow in every direction as far as the eye could see. The only sound was her panting and her footfalls as she ran. Her misting breath streamed out behind her like a bridal veil.
    She saw a band of deer pawing through the snow for forage. A startled hare darted across her path. At last, she came to a silent country road and turned left. A few minutes later, she skittered nervously across the bridge over the River Cole. She hated going over bridges. Having watched her parents drown, she wanted nothing to do with any body of water anywhere on earth. On the other side of the bridge, at Bordesley Green, her adventure took on its usual element of danger. The vagrants’ bonfires were burning, out there on the distant green. She summoned forth a burst of speed and sprinted as fast as she could, skirting the large, dark, open expanse. They called it Mud City.
    It was the blight of Birmingham—a growing squatters’ village inhabited by criminals, beggars, pickpockets, thieves, and low, skulking rascals of every stripe. They had set up camp on the green and were so insolent that they had frightened the mayor and the town elders into letting them stay, lest they riot. The nearby garrison of soldiers had been stationed there to make sure the filthy creatures kept the peace. Miranda knew it was reckless of her to pass on the outskirts of their territory, but she was almost late and it was the quickest way to the Pavilion. She was freezing in her skimpy costume. Besides, she was not easily intimidated by anyone.
    As she came away from the dark, open space of the green and approached the Pavilion, she saw the gaslights shining inside. Her heart leaped with rising excitement. Outside the theater, people were milling about everywhere, queued up to buy their entrance tokens, mostly men finishing their cigars before going in to find a seat. She raced up to the building, attracting numerous stares and half a dozen indecent propositions, but she ignored them and took no offense, for she knew full well how most of the girls in this business made extra money.
    She pounded up the wooden steps of the back entrance, her heart racing with excitement. This night was special somehow. She could feel it.
    Marching through the back hallway, she flung into the dressing room with a beaming smile.
    “Miss White!” the players greeted her, using her stage name. She dared not use her real name, for her Uncle Jason would throttle her if he ever found out about this.
    “You’re late! We were beginning to worry!” the clown said anxiously.
    “Oh, I’d never fail you, my dears,” she chided gaily, giving his red, waxen nose a honk. Then she shrugged off her rough, woolen cloak.
    “Hullo, beautiful,” Stefano, the leading man, murmured, sauntering over to her with a suave smile.
    Miranda dismissed his flirtatious look with a laugh and pulled off her snow-caked boots just as Mr. Chipping came bustling into the greenroom, hectic as a wind eddy. The lively little bald man was the manager of the circuit company, which traveled continuously between Birmingham, Coventry, Leicester, and Nottingham.
    Mr. Chipping had often averred that her status as daughter of the late, internationally famed Fanny Blair would rocket Miranda to stardom, if she pursued it. He had already offered her the coveted position of juvenile lead, so that one day she might ascend to leading lady, just like her mother had been for a short time at London’s Lyceum Theatre in the Strand, where Papa had first laid eyes on her. He lit up