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when I was quite young.”
    â€œDo they live close by, then?”
    She folds the fan shut and tucks it out of sight in her apron. “I don’t have anyone to speak of,” she says. “I did have a sister once, who came with me to Walthingham Hall, but…” Her voice trails off, and she stretches her fingers toward the fire. “But I no longer have any family to speak of, no.”
    The orphan in me longs to clasp her hands, but I know such intimacy would embarrass her. I stay silent as she helps me undress. She takes such pride in folding the heavy satin, in clustering the hairpins away into a gilded box. As the clock in the hallway strikes one, she bids me good night.
    Stella is already lying at the bottom of my bed, caught in a dream. I gently pat her as she paddles the air with her paws. Tonight must go down as a success in Grace’s eyes, and really, I tell myself, the ball itself wasn’t so bad. I think Jane and I might become firm friends—though in truth, Elsie and I have more in common than anyone I’ve met since arriving at Walthingham.
    I should be happy, cosseted by luxury, my every wish attended to.
    I blow out the candle on the bedside table and watch the gray smoke drift.
    I should be happy.
    So why am I not?

 
    CHAPTER 4
    Dear Aunt Lila and Uncle Edward,
    Your faraway girl has been a bit further than usual these days, and for that I am sincerely sorry. You mustn’t believe that I’ve grown too grand to write; George keeps me in line quite nicely, as does the fear of using entirely the wrong utensils in front of my very high-class cousins.
    I hope the winter hasn’t been too harsh, and that Geoffrey has recovered from his fear of the “big horse” after his recent fall. Though I can’t say I entirely blame him—Bluebell always was a cranky thing. Aunt Lila, please let me know which colors you like best, because I plan on sending you something lovely for Anna’s wedding this spring.
    How is Paul getting along without George to help with the horses? And how is Connor?
    I pause a moment to read what I’ve written. After an initial flurry of homesick letters, in which I tried to portray for them the opulence of our new life, I’ve allowed contact with my guardians to trail off. With the time taken for the crossing, I won’t hear back for many weeks anyway.
    When this letter finally reaches her, will Aunt Lila show it to Connor? And if she does, will it tug at his heart just a bit, to see the paper where I’ve folded it, and to think of my life going on without him?
    A sharp rap at the door makes me jump. The cup of hot chocolate at my elbow wobbles, but doesn’t spill. Before I can answer, Grace sails in, attired for visiting. A belted salmon dress makes the most of her narrow waist, and under the wide brim of a matching hat, her face looks nearly pretty—but, as always, a bit too thin.
    â€œI hope you slept well, cousin,” she says.
    â€œI had no choice,” I say, smiling. “That mattress must be a foot deep.”
    In truth, my sleep was fitful, punctured with dreams as strange as the preceding events. Behind my eyelids, something paced with a heavy tread. I woke to the long, keening sound of a woman’s scream—which faded to nothing as my dream deserted me.
    Grace assesses me with a raised chin, as she always does, before nodding once. “You look very well,” she says.
    When she brought the hot chocolate, Elsie also carried in a deep blue day dress, with a puffed bodice and split skirt revealing an underskirt of palest ivory. The days when I’d throw on the first patched dress that came to hand and keep it on until bedtime feel very far away; here there are rules even about the clothes one wears in bed.
    Grace wanders over to the window.
    â€œI’ve received many cards of thanks for last night’s ball, and more than one contained admiring words about you,