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in one room, most likely trapped inside last summer. I touched its brittle feathers lightly, then drew back. Its dark, dull eyes frightened me.
    At the end of the hall, I stopped in front of the last closed door. I struggled to turn the knob, but it wouldn’t move. To get a better grip, I wrapped my skirt around the knob and used all my strength. At last it yielded, and I shoved the door open. In front of me, a narrow flight of stairs led up to the dark attic.
    Over my head, the wind rumbled. Rain beat against the roof. I heard creaking sounds and rustlings. I thought of Jane Eyre’s climb to the tower where Mr. Rochester kept his insane wife. Things worse than a dead bird could be up there.
    As I hesitated, I heard the cleaning woman’s voice on the floor below. I’d forgotten it was her day to come. My fear of being discovered was greater than my fear of the attic’s secrets. As quietly as possible, I closed the door behind me, plunging myself into a cold darkness given voice by the wind and the rain.
    Cautiously, I climbed the creaking steps, listening for odd sounds and watching for signs of danger.
    Dim light leaked in through a row of small windows under the eaves. Gradually furniture emerged from the shadows—bureaus, chairs, mirrors, boxes and chests, heaps of old, mildewed books. I opened drawers and cabinets crammed with faded silks, ancient linens, and yellowing documents written in Latin. I peered into boxes and found tarnished silverware, chipped bowls, cracked plates, and dainty cups without handles.
    In hope of finding something more interesting, I looked around and spied a large trunk. Lifting its curved lid, I was amazed to find myself staring into the faces of half a dozen dolls. They had long curly hair and rosy cheeks. Their hands and feet were delicate. Their dresses were silk. They looked brand new, untouched, sleeping as if nothing would ever wake them.
    Gently, I lifted one out. Her hair was dark and curly, and her eyes were the same blue as her dress. Her lips were parted in a smile revealing tiny white teeth and the tip of a pink tongue. She wore white stockings and button-top shoes.
    In the orphanage, we used to daydream about dolls like these. We saw them in shops when we went out for walks with Miss Beatty. While she waited patiently, we pressed our noses against the window and chose our favorites, the ones we’d buy if we were rich. I always called mine Clara Annette, a beautiful name, I thought.
    This doll, I thought, would be my Clara Annette. I had no idea who she belonged to or why she was in the attic. I did not care. I’d found her and I planned to keep her. In the daytime, I’d hide her in my wardrobe under the spare blankets and quilts. In the nighttime, she’d sleep with me.
    Laying Clara Annette gently on a nearby chair, I moved the other dolls aside to see what else was in the trunk. Wrapped in tissue paper were dresses and slips, nightgowns and robes, coats and hats, shoes and stockings and underwear. I held up a blue silk dress and stared at myself in an age specked mirror. It had been made for a girl about my size. Like the doll’s dress, the dress matched my eyes.
    As I turned this way and that, admiring my reflection, I felt a familiar shiver run up my spine. Clasping the dress to my chest, I stared about me. “Is that you, Sophia?” I whispered to the shadows.
    Rain pounded on the roof and gales of winter wind moaned in the eaves. But no one answered.
    â€œWhy do you hide from me?” I called.
    I heard a rustling sound, followed by a giggle. “It’s a game,” Sophia whispered. “I found you—now you must find me.”
    Dropping the dress, I ran toward Sophia’s voice. “Where are you?”
    â€œHere, there, everywhere,” she whispered, repeating the fountain’s riddle. “Here, there, everywhere.”
    I whirled in circles, trying to locate her, but I couldn’t. She truly was