“Looking Glass Variants. They’re temporary—?the reflection will last for a quarter of an hour, and then it will vanish again,” Mrs. Cliffton explains. She turns to go, but I pause, relishing one long, last look at my reflection, wondering when I will see myself again. “There are rules about when you can use the Variants. Most of them are permitted when you turn Of Age at seventeen and can be trusted to use them in a way that isn’t obvious. I suppose I’ve already been a poor example of that. But Aila—?you’ll be seventeen soon?”
“Not until May,” I say. How strange, that until then I will have to ask for permission to see my own face.
“Matilda Fine Cliffton, I never! What are you thinking?”
A woman in a hat with a small veil barges out from Bloom’s Hardware. Another woman is close behind her.
I step back, trying to block the window. Our reflection hasn’t faded yet. It is behind us, giving us away.
“Violet, Clara, allow me to introduce you to Juliet’s children,” Mrs. Cliffton says smoothly. “Aila, Miles, this is Mrs. Fogg and Mrs. Patton.” She tugs on the ends of her jacket to straighten the fabric. “I’m just showing them a bit of the real Sterling.”
Mrs. Fogg narrows her eyes at us. “So the Council decided to let them in after all.” She moves her gaze to Mrs. Cliffton. “Matilda, this is highly disappointing from a woman of your place. People look to you to set an example. I hope you haven’t forgotten that. It’s bad enough you took them in—?and right before the fair.”
“Thank you, Violet,” Mrs. Cliffton says, her voice crisp. “I’m quite aware of my responsibilities around the Variants.”
The second woman, Mrs. Patton, the one with piercing jade eyes, attempts to smooth things over. Her dress suit is sharp and tailored, her cheekbones striking. “I’m sure it won’t happen again.” She adds pointedly, “Please do give our best to Malcolm.”
Mrs. Fogg purses her lips but stays silent.
“Yoo-hoo!” Across the street, Mrs. Mackelroy steps out of the general store and is waving wildly. “Violet! Clara!”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, let’s pretend we didn’t see her,” Mrs. Patton says. They duck their heads and hurry away. Mrs. Fogg brushes into me when she passes.
“Let’s head home, shall we?” Mrs. Cliffton says to us. “I would run into them,” she adds sheepishly as she leads us away. Her mouth tightens. “I’m sure I’ll be hearing about this later.”
“Will Dr. Cliffton be angry?” Miles asks knowingly.
Mrs. Cliffton gives a short laugh. “No, dear. Not Dr. Cliffton. Some other people in the town are just very concerned that this should all stay a secret.”
As we drive home, Mrs. Cliffton rolls down the windows so that the breeze comes in. I slump back in the seat, suddenly wanting nothing more than to sleep.
Whenever I asked Mother about her childhood, she just shrugged her shoulders and said there wasn’t much to tell. She hid this. From all of us. Which means she was not the person I thought she was. Not fully, anyway.
In some ways, this is almost worse than the day she died. It feels like falling backwards in a chair and not knowing when I’m going to hit the ground.
It feels like a betrayal.
My eye catches the flap of something in the cream paper of my shopping bag. It flutters with the breeze until I pluck it out. The rough grain of the paper is folded into a sharp crease, the letters inside written hastily in large, bold print, with an intensity that almost forced the pen right through the paper.
I swallow. It’s an anonymous message of five simple words:
You are not welcome here.
I steal up to my room as soon as we reach the Clifftons’ and shred the note into little pieces.
If I were at home, this would have earned a nice deep line for my floor.
My eyes burn with tears, and I throw the shredded paper into the waste bin. I wish I could show it to Cass. Her mouth would form a perfect O, her eyes narrowing in indignation on my behalf. Instead I go in search of Mrs. Cliffton. She is in the dining room, pouring water from a decanter into glasses filled with ice. When she smiles at me, I decide I won’t tell her about the note.
“Mrs. Cliffton,” I say, threading my fingers together nervously, “does my father know about the Disappearances?”
Mrs. Cliffton pauses in her pouring. “I’m not sure he does,” she says. She moves to the next glass. “Of course, I don’t know that for sure—” She hesitates, choosing her words. “But when I hinted at how different things are here, I had the sense he didn’t fully grasp what I was getting at. He was more focused on making sure you all would be cared for by someone he could trust.”
She straightens a knife. “Please know that you are perfectly safe here, Aila.” The ice shifts and crackles in the glasses. I think again of the Council.
I’m trying to decide which thread I want to pick up—?Why do you stay here? Why did Mother hide this? What’s the Council, and why don’t people want us in Sterling?—?when Genevieve appears, balancing a platter of ham. “Aila,” Mrs. Cliffton says, picking up the silver ice tongs, “I’m sure this all must come as quite a shock and you have many questions. There will be time for them all. But for now, would you call everyone for dinner?”
Reluctantly, I leave to look for Miles and Will. I find them outside, kicking a ball back and forth. Will appears to have gotten a haircut since yesterday. The scruffy hair at the back of his neck is now a sheared, sharp line, and pomade has darkened the color to almost black. I pause at the window, letting myself really look at him—?at cheekbones that I can see now are his mother’s, the carved edge of his jawline, dark, long lashes. I flush when he turns and suddenly looks up at the window, and I knock on the glass to wave them inside. Then I duck my head and hurry toward the wide oak door of Dr. Cliffton’s library.
