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with her love-slave routine. Even Charles Bovary had called Rodolphe “a bit of a playboy.” But oh, that moment when she saw his carriage crossing the village square, escaping her. She keeled right over.
    “But try to imagine,” Emma said, “you are like him. Having left a person like me. What would you be thinking?”
    “I might be lonely.”
    “Honestly? Do you think he misses me?”
    “I really can’t speak for Rodolphe…”
    “I can!” I leapt up from behind the couch. “Rodolphe’s not coming back! You have to forget him!”
    Madame’s mouth hung open, her skin pale and eyes wide. I could tell that her horror was twofold. It wasn’t simply what I’d said, but that someone my age had said something at all. In her world, children kept their mouths shut. She held her throat; she looked as if she might be headed for another swoon.
    “Penelope Anne!” Mother jumped off the couch, knocking the popcorn to the floor. “What on earth?” Already her hand was raised. She turned and knelt on the couch, leaning over the back of it.
    “Get over Rodolphe!” I yelled. “He’s just using—”
    Mother swung back and slapped my face. Hard. I staggered backward. Then she jumped over the couch, covered my mouth with her hand, and pushed me out of the room. Tears sprang to my eyes. Never in my life had she raised a hand to me; I never once had a stinging cheek. I backed into the hallway. I’d never seen her so angry, her nostrils flaring, her eyes narrowed to slits.
    “Don’t you ever—” She pressed her hand harder against my mouth, and I stuck out my tongue and licked her salty palm, tasted popcorn. She yanked her hand away, recoiling. “Penny, my God!”
    “You hit me!” I hissed.
    “Don’t you ever butt in—”
    “I can’t just sit there and let her ruin her life!” We were fighting in a whisper.
    “You have to.”
    “Why? Because that’s what you do?”
    “Because it’s not our place to change things.”
    I turned away and tried to start up the stairs, but she caught my arm.
    “It’s dangerous!” she said.
    “It’s dangerous to do nothing.” I yanked my arm from her hand and made a gun of my index finger and thumb. I pointed it at my forehead. “You want her to wind up dead?”
    “It’s not my job to fix her life. Her fate is sealed.”
    “That’s just an excuse. You could do something.”
    “You think it’s easy for me to hold back? I feel so much for them.”
    “Yeah, the Heroines get all the sympathy, and I just get slapped.”
    Mother covered her face with her hands. She shook her head and slumped against the wall, dragging her hands down her face, pulling her skin so she looked almost ghoulish. She slowly slid down the wall into a crouch. “This isn’t working anymore. You’re getting too old…you’re…”
    “I’m what?” I started to sob then, a crooning wail right from my gut. All the pent-up confusion and rage I felt over no longer being her little girl overwhelmed me. “What’s so wrong with me?”
    That was the moment when I wanted her to say, There’s nothing wrong with you. Instead, she let the tears roll to her chin without wiping them away. She looked up at the ceiling, avoiding my eyes. “Everything now. Everything is wrong.”

Chapter 7
My affection for Conor grows
The pleasures of deception My jealous
nature Male rage Escape
    T he woods smelled different to me that night—the ground more wet, the trees sharp and fragrant. Nighthawks shrieked and bats fluttered in the trees. Conor let me hold the reins. Our bodies moved in sync with the galloping horse. His hands rested loosely on my hips when we sped up, dropped to his thighs when we slowed down. He had relaxed since I’d dreamt up the half-baked scheme of tricking Deirdre to come into the woods. We were in cahoots, though my complicity was a lie. I got a sharp thrill from fooling a man like him. I would relish lording this over Mother. I had to meddle in a Heroine’s fate this time! She