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of me and Mama. Then I walked over to the bookshelf and sighed. All our favorite books. The Brontës’ stories, the Greek mythology, the poems. Then I knew which book I wanted to bring.
    Mrs. Dewsbury was talking on the phone in the kitchen when I snuck downstairs. There it was in the living room. Right where I had left it the night … well, the night Mama died.
The Poems of Emily Dickinson
.
    For a moment, I considered running away. To the hills, or one of the abandoned farms. Somewhere near Mama’s grave, where I could still visit her and feel her presence around me. Where I wouldn’t feel so alone in the world.
    No. I straightened my shoulders.
No, I won’t run away. I’ll be strong. I’ll be the woman that Mama always wanted me to be —fearless and tough
.
    I looked over the room one last time before running upstairs to place the book in with my meager possessions. I zipped the bag shut and sighed at all the dolls and animals that were left. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, kissing every one of them, no matter how childish it felt. “I just don’t have room.”
    Before shutting the door to my room behind me for the last time, I said good-bye to the pictures still on the wall, and the books remaining on my shelves.
    I crept across the hallway to Mama’s room, still hearing Mrs. Dewsbury talking from the kitchen.
    Daphne met me in the middle of the hall and purred, rubbing her head against my leg.
    “Oh, Daphne,” I murmured, scooping her up in my arms and burying my face in her orange fur. “Oh, I’m going to miss you so much.” I set her on the ground and watched her strut back down the hallway, oblivious to my heartache.
    I opened the door to Mama’s room and choked back more tears.
    It was as if nothing had happened. The bed was still unmade and one of the windows was open. The curtains fluttered in the breeze. A book that we had been reading was still sitting on the nightstand.
    I shut the door behind me and walked over to Mama’s still-open piano. My fingers ran over the keys as I tried to lock the memory in my brain. I sunk into the seat and began to play.
    “Pavane for a Dead Princess.” It seemed fitting. Mama
was
a princess.
    I played it better than I ever had before, even after hours of practicing. Tears blinded my eyes as my fingers slid down the keys, caressing every one.
This is for you, Mama. See, I told you I’d always play for you
. I strangled down a sob.
    “Alcyone.”
    The song ended abruptly. I looked up to see Mrs. Dewsbury frowning in the doorway, and wiped away my tears fiercely. “I was just … I was just …”
    Mrs. Dewsbury gulped and for a moment I wondered if she was going to cry. But then her face calmed and she cleared her throat. “It’s time to go.” She spun on her heel and marched back down the stairs. Maybe showing emotion wasn’t something that was listed in her job description.
    I closed the piano and let my arms drop. I scooped up my bag and looked around the room.
I’ll be good, Mama. I promise
.
    I swallowed hard and wiped my eye. “I love you,” I whispered.
    Then I turned on my heel and shut the door behind me.
    “What do you think of Maine, Alcyone?”
    I looked up, startled. Mrs. Dewsbury raised an eyebrow.
    I turned back to the car window and leaned my cheek against the glass. Rain dribbled down, blurring everything in the distance. “It’s very … green.”
    “Yes, it is.” Mrs. Dewsbury repositioned her purse and leaned forward to say something to the driver.
    I wiped my cheek on my sleeve and fought back a sniffle, focusing on the Maine countryside around me. It was very green. And big.
Empty
.
    “Here we are!” The taxi skidded to a stop. I lurched forward and grabbed my bag. “Well? What do you think?” Mrs. Dewsbury asked.
    I rolled down the window and stuck my head out, gazing up at the house.
    It was very large, most likely built in the late 1800s, painted white with dozens of windows and red shutters and chimneys and sharp points.