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less chores to do than Emily or Thomas. How could that be? Victoria never raised her voice to Mrs. Belfer, either, and it all added up to a puzzle that simmered inside Emily’s mind.
    Why had her father married Victoria? Couldn’t he see beyond surface beauty to the evil beneath, to the plotting, vicious ways, to the lies and outright distortions? Apparently he could not. As Emily thought of this, she amused herself by envisioning Victoria fat, pimply and in a straitjacket. Fabulous, exquisite Victoria with monster zits glutting her face, zits that drove her insane. The picture made Emily feel better, though it changed nothing.
    She stared for a moment at the wall nearest her and projected her own full-color image upon its surface. Though she crouched in the hallway, her image stood erect, a short, slim girl with only a few body curves, straight brown hair, a somewhat narrow face and oversized green eyes. The image was a recurrent trick of her mind that she didn’t understand. She tried not to discuss it with anyone except her brother, who told her it must be a matter of physics. At an early age she had discovered that other people did not possess the same ability and could not see their own reflections on walls or sidewalks or sides of buildings. And since no one could see hers, it sounded crazy to mention it. Just as it was crazy to think she’d turned Victoria into a mannequin a few minutes earlier, or inundated her with pimples.
    Despite her imaginings Emily felt like an adult caught in a child’s body, a circumstance that made her essentially voiceless, unheeded in a world run by adults. She believed Victoria’s inane chatter was listened to merely because of packaging.
    In Emily’s opinion the woman—she preferred to call Victoria “the woman”—spent a lot of time worrying about her appearance and nitpicking Emily and Thomas about every article of clothing they wore. As if that were the most important consideration in the world. And those little French words that Victoria scattered about like alms for the poor . . .
    Emily felt anger building inside her. Something buzzed near her ear, and she swatted without seeing at what. The buzzing continued unabated.
    Squick rose to his feet. “Good to talk with you, Victoria. Sorry to rush away, but I’ve a full schedule, lots of orders to fill.” His voice lowered, to a weaving of silk: “I’ll be in touch with you soon.” He leaned toward Victoria, then straightened suddenly and walked to the door. “I’ll see myself out.”
    Afterward, as Victoria returned to the kitchen, she hummed to herself. “Mmmm, isn’t that nice. Now I don’t have to worry about the arrangements.”
    Emily turned in the opposite direction, mimicking her stepmother under her breath. “Mmmm, isn’t that nice—”
    “Don’t think I didn’t notice you hiding in the hallway eavesdropping, Little Miss Crazy Brat!” Victoria called out in a ringing tone from the kitchen.
    Emily wanted to scream back but held her temper and shut the door.
    You’re my bete noire, Emily thought, recalling a phrase from Victoria’s French-English dictionary. She chastised herself for the thought and searched for an English alternative. Bugbear, hate object, black beast. I like black beast. It has a riper, juicier sound. It rolls around on my tongue.
    Something clattered in the kitchen, an angry noise.
    Birthdays were always hard on Emily. The birth mother of the Harvey children had died in an accident on Emily’s fifth birthday. Emily wished she could enjoy birthdays the way other children did, but her therapist said it would take time, that one day she would no longer associate the day with death and it would come to signify life. It didn’t seem possible.
    The children were a comfort for each other. Through some magic that they generated between themselves, they obtained information neither of the adults in their lives would give them. The children often played a game they called Seek, an unusual