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I can hear. “I don’t know how you can claim to hate her so much, when you’re exactly like her.”
    She stalks from the kitchen, practically dragging Mister Ogden away by the arm, and I grab on to the counter, fighting the urge to vomit. I am nothing like Mistress Ogden. I stop and take a deep breath, and imagine myself feeding Serena’s words to the starved kitten.
    “Set the table,” Mistress Ogden commands. When I don’t move she says, “Well? What are you waiting for?”
    “When the orphanage brought me to you, did they give you anything from my mother?” I ask. “A keepsake, something to remember her by?” I don’t mention the book, or Mister Travers, as I wouldn’t put it past her to steal the book a second time.
    She removes a vase from a shelf. “Your mother was probably nothing but a dirty whore who abandoned you the first chance she got. You really think she’d leave you something?”
    “Please,” I say, forcing the anger from my voice. “Did she leave me anything?”
    “I haven’t got time for your nonsense.” She begins polishing the vase. “Mister Blackwell will be here in just a matter of—”
    “Tell me the truth!” I move to grab her arm. My aim lands low, and my hand knocks the vase from her hands. Glass shatters on the stone floor.
    Mistress Ogden stands very still. “You will pick that up immediately, or—”
    “Or what?” I interrupt. “You’ll beat me? Deny me more meals? Lock me in the barn again? If you’re going to do something, you’d better make sure it doesn’t leave any marks, otherwise Mister Blackwell may decide not to pay you tonight.”
    “I don’t wish to play your games.” She fetches a broom and holds it out to me.
    I grab the broom and then hurl it across the room. It smacks the wall and clatters to the ground. I step closer to her, and for the first time ever, I see a shadow of fear flicker across her face. “And maybe I don’t wish to play your games. Maybe it would be worth it to me to tell Mister Blackwell who you really are.”
    Mistress Ogden reaches out. Her long nails sink into my bare forearm, piercing my skin, and I gasp in pain. “Mister Blackwell will come tonight,” she hisses. “And you will play your role, do you understand?” She rakes her nails down my arm, leaving small red rivers in their wake. “And if you do not, you will find yourself chained up like a common thief, as I’ll have to tell the sheriff how you’ve been stealing from us.”
    “I’ve never stolen anything from you!”
    She bends low and whispers into my ear, “It would be my word against yours. Do you think anyone would ever believe you over me?” Her nails dig deeper. “Do you understand?”
    “Yes.” I gasp in relief when she finally releases me.
    “Now,” she says, smoothing her skirts, “you will clean this mess up. You will scrape the grime off yourself. And you will make an effort to look like a respectable girl.”
    She turns around to leave, but turns back. “And Elara?” Her gaze flicks to my bleeding forearm. “Make sure you wear long sleeves.”
     

CHAPTER 6
ELARA
     
     
    W hen it comes to deception, attention to detail is everything.
    The table is set with silver bowls and goblets (the ones Mistress Ogden keeps locked up so Mister Ogden can’t sell them). White candles are placed before each setting and their flames flicker in the drafty dining room. It looks as though we’re about to sit down to a nice family meal, instead of a performance carefully crafted by Mistress Ogden.
    When Mister Blackwell arrives and Mistress Ogden shows him into the dining room, I feel a cold, cutting pain. Like a jagged piece of ice has wedged itself in my chest.
    “Good evening, Elara,” Mister Blackwell extends his hand, which I take.
    “Good evening, sir.”
    He raises my hand to his lips, and it’s all I can do not to snatch my arm away. Something about Mister Blackwell repulses me. He is thin. Skeletal, almost. His long black hair hangs down