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in the dark； my fingers closed around a ghost pencil and twitched in response to the questions that penetrated my drowsiness。 i wondered about the secret tattoo charlie bore inside his body； his sister’s name etched onto his bone。 how long would the inscription have remained？ could a living bone mend itself？ or was it with him till he died？ in his coffin； underground； as his flesh rotted away from the bone； was the name isabelle revealed to the darkness？ roland march； the dead husband； so soon forgotten… isabelle and charlie。 charlie and isabelle。 who was the twins’ father？ and behind my thoughts； the scar on miss winter’s palm rose into view。 the letter q for question； seared into human flesh。
as i started to sleepwrite my questions； the margin seemed to expand。 the paper throbbed with light。 swelling； it engulfed me； until i realized with a mixture of trepidation and wonderment that i was enclosed in the grain of the paper； embedded in the white interior of the story itself。 weightless； i wandered all night long in miss winter’s story； plotting its landscape； measuring its contours and； on tiptoe at its borers； peering at the mysteries beyond its bounds。
gardensi woke early。 too early。 the monotonous fragment of a tune was scratching at my brain。 with more than an hour to wait before judith’s knock at the door with breakfast； i made myself a cup of cocoa； drank it scaldingly hot and went outdoors。
miss winter’s garden was something of a puzzle。 the sheer size of it was overwhelming for a start。 what i had taken at first sight to be the border of the garden…—the hedge of yew on the other side of the formal beds—
was only a kind of inner wall that divided one part of the garden from another。 and the garden was full of such divisions。 there were hedges of hawthorne and privet and copper beech； stone walls covered with ivy； winter clematis and the bare； scrambling stems of rambling roses； and fences； neatly paneled or woven in willow。
following the paths； i wandered from one section to another； but i could not fathom the layout。 hedges that looked solid viewed straight on； sometimes revealed a diagonal passageway when viewed obliquely。 shrubberies were easy to wander into and near…impossible to escape from。 fountains and statues that i thought i had left well behind me reappeared。 i spent a lot of time stock…still； looking around me in perplexity and shaking my head。 nature had made a maze of itself and was setting out deliberately to thwart me。
turning a corner； i came across the reticent； bearded man who had driven me from the station。 “maurice is what they call me；” he said； reluctantly introducing himself。
‘how do you manage not to get lost？“ i wanted to know。 ”is there a trick to it？“
‘only time；“ he said； without looking up from his work。 he was kneeling over an area of churned…up soil； leveling it and pressing the earth around the roots of the plants。
maurice； i could tell； did not wele my presence in the garden。 i didn’t mind； being of a solitary nature myself。 after that i made a point； whenever i saw him； of taking a path in the opposite direction； and i think he shared my discretion； for once or twice； catching a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye； i glanced up to see maurice backing out of an entrance or making a sudden； divergent turn。 in this way we successfully left each other in peace。 there was ample room for us to avoid each other without any sense of constraint。
later that day i went to miss winter and she told me more about the household at angelfield。
the name of the missus was mrs。 dunne； but to the children of the family she had always been the missus； and she had been in the house it seemed forever。 this was a rarity： staff came and went quickly at angelfield； and since departures were slightly more frequent than arrivals； he day came when she was the only indoors servant remaining。 technically the housekeeper； in reality she did everything。 she scrubbed pots and laid fires like an underhousemaid； when it was time to make a meal he was cook and when it was time to serve it she was butler。 yet by the time the twins were born she was growing old。 her hearing was poor； her sight poorer； and although she didn’t like to admit it； there was much she couldn’t manage。
the missus knew how children ought to be brought up： regular mealtimes； regular bedtimes； regular baths。 isabelle and charlie had grown up overindulged and neglected at the same time； and it broke her heart to see how they turned out。 their neglect of the twins was her chance； she hoped； to break the pattern。 she had a plan。 under their noses； in the heart of all their chaos； she meant to raise two normal； ordinary little girls。 three square meals a day； bedtime at six； church on sunday。
but it was harder than she thought。
for a start there was the fighting。 adeline would fly at her sister； fists and feet flailing； yanking at hair and landing blows wherever she could。 she chased her sister wielding red…hot coals in the fire tongs。 the missus hardly knew what worried her more： adeline’s persistent and merciless aggression； or emmeline’s constant； ungrudging acceptance of it。 for emmeline； though she pleaded with her sister to stop tormenting her； never once retaliated。 instead； she bowed her head passively and waited for the blows that rained down on her shoulders and back to stop。 the missus had never once known emmeline to raise a hand against adeline。 she had the goodness of two children in her； and adeline the wickedness of two。 in a way； the missus thought； it made sense。
then there was the vexed issue of food。 at mealtimes； more often than not； the children simply could not be found。 emmeline adored eating； but her love of food never translated itself into the discipline of meals。 her hunger could not be acmodated by three meals a day； it was a ravenous； capricious thing。 ten； twenty； fifty times a day； it struck； making urgent demands for food； and when it had been satisfied with a few mouthfuls of something； it departed and food became an irrelevance again。 emmeline’s plumpness was maintained by a pocket constantly full of bread and raisins； a portable feast that she would take a bite from whenever and wherever she fancied。 she came to the table only to replenish these pockets before wandering off to loll by the fire or lie in a field somewhere。
her sister was quite different。 adeline was made like a piece of wire with knots for knees and elbows。 her fuel was not the same as that of other mortals。 meals were not for her。 no one ever saw her eat； like the wheel of perpetual motion she was a closed circuit； running on energy provided from some miraculous inner source。 but the wheel that spins eternally is a myth； and when the missus noticed in the morning an empty plate where there had been a slice of gammon the night before； or a loaf of bread with a chunk missing； she guessed where they had gone and sighed。 why wouldn’t her girls eat food off a plate； like normal children？
perhaps she might have managed better if she’d been younger。 or if the girls had been one instead of two。 but the angelfield blood carried a code that no amount of nursery food and strict