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what has to be.”
    Emily gives the blanket a fierce tug. She knows what Charlotte’s doing — she’s trying to be like Maria, their beloved elder sister. Even when she was being bullied by that hateful teacher Miss Andrews at Cowan Bridge, she would bear it patiently, declaring that what could not be avoided must be endured.
    But Charlotte isn’t Maria. She shouldn’t be doing this.
    She’s about to tell her so when Charlotte turns to look at her. “But, Emily, I do want to learn as much as I can. Papa does his best, but he hasn’t time to cover everything. And I think school will be good for me.”
    “ Good for you? Charlotte, you can’t mean that.”
    “I do. As Aunt says, it’s time I got used to mixing with other girls.”
    “What on earth for?”
    “Oh, Emily, don’t be silly. We’ll have to go out into society sooner or later. This will be good practice.”
    Emily is silenced, chilled by the very idea. They don’t need “society.” As long as the four of them have got one another and Papa and Tabby, they don’t need anyone else. But maybe Charlotte doesn’t feel the same.
    Maybe she wants to meet new people.
    Shaken by the thought, Emily stares at her sister. She remembers the way Charlotte separated her miniature books from theirs. This is yet another sign that she’s preparing to move away from them.
    Emily bites the inside of her lip. It’s unbearable. Too much is changing. First Papa and now Charlotte. It can’t happen. She won’t let it.
    She nudges Charlotte. “What if the school’s like Cowan Bridge?” she hisses.
    “It won’t be.” But Charlotte’s voice wavers and Emily presses home her advantage.
    “Remember that ugly purple uniform?”
    “Yes!” Charlotte winces. “Of course I do! I hated everyone knowing we were charity children. But Aunt says there isn’t a uniform at Roe Head. We can wear our own clothes.”
    Emily tries another tack. “But don’t you remember how vile the food was? Burned porridge with bits of gristle and bone in it because the pan hadn’t been washed properly.”
    Charlotte shudders. “And the grease floating in our milk.”
    “Exactly. And you can’t have forgotten the bigger girls stealing our bread? What it felt like to always be hungry?”
    Charlotte says nothing, but she looks thoughtful. Emily nudges her again. “Those frightful stories that Mr. Wilson wrote for The Children’s Friend and made us read?”
    “Don’t,” says Charlotte with a grimace.
    “ ‘Edward, aged five, died of a mad dog bite,’ ” Emily intones. “ ‘But what a blessing it was as he was saved from sin and damnation, the fate that awaits all naughty children …’ ”
    “Stop it.” Charlotte puts her hands over her ears. “I don’t expect Miss Wooler is anything like Mr. Wilson. And Papa wouldn’t let me go if he thought anything bad might happen.” Charlotte’s voice cracks and she lets her hands drop. She turns to face Emily, her expression pleading. “I’d rather you stopped talking about it and just accepted the situation. Please.”
    Emily can see the tension in Charlotte’s jaw. Another minute and she’ll be crying.
    Relenting, Emily lays her hand on her sister’s arm. “I’m sure you’re right. Papa will have looked into it all very carefully. He won’t let anything happen to you.”
    She’s only saying it to make Charlotte feel better — she doesn’t believe it for a minute. But she doesn’t dare go any further. She can’t break the taboo and mention The Terrible Events, though Charlotte, she is sure, must be thinking about them too. And Papa was powerless to stop them, so it’s not likely it would be any different this time.
    Charlotte wriggles down under the bedclothes, the signal for sleep. As Emily snuggles herself against her sister, she shivers. And it’s not just because the bed hasn’t warmed up yet and the air in the bedroom has the chill of ice in it.
    It’s here … what she’s done her best to shut away is here,