We followed him, and I saw Edith frowning even harder as we left our plates behind. I had to smile a little at that. I knew from experience that she had probably been about to order us to do the washing-up.
“What do you think this is about?” Scarlet whispered to me as we headed down the hallway towards Father’s office.
“No idea,” I replied.
The fire inside his office had been lit too, and we felt the warmth as he held the door open for us. For a moment he stopped there, as if uncertain of what he was doing.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “I was going to show you something, wasn’t I?”
Scarlet looked at me, and I gave her a confused glance in return.
Father went over to his desk and sat down on the chair. “I’ve been thinking a lot about your mother lately,” he said.
My mouth dropped open. I’m not sure I could have been more surprised if he’d said, “I’m planning a trip to the moon.”
Our mother had died when we were born, and Father never talked about it, especially not since he’d married Edith. The thought of our mother seemed to be so painful for him that he often avoided thinking about us too. And now here he was, suddenly initiating a conversation about her.
“What?” Scarlet exclaimed.
He didn’t seem to notice our surprise. “I still have some things of hers, you know,” he said. He wasn’t even talking to us, more to the frost on the windows that was shrinking back from the heat of the fire. “I’ve been keeping them locked away. But after your theatre performance – after I met your aunt for the first time, and what she told me about her …”
He started coughing and then trailed off. It took me a moment to recall what he was talking about, but I realised he meant our Aunt Sara. We had tracked her down when we discovered our mother’s true identity: that her maiden name had been Ida Jane Smith, not Emmeline Adel as we had been told. She had taken the name of her friend who was killed by Rookwood’s former headmaster, Mr Bartholomew, in a punishment that had gone horribly wrong. When Aunt Sara had met Father, she had told him all this, or at least some of it.
Scarlet leant forward and waved a hand at him. “Yes?” she said.
He blinked at her, and then carried on. “I only locked them up because I had a lot to think about. I found myself wondering if I had ever really known her. But then I thought …” He sighed, picked up his pipe between his fingers and twirled it. “No. It’s no matter. She was my Emmeline, and yours. I think perhaps I was giving the past too much weight. It was a lot to bear.”
Now it was my turn to be unable to meet his eye. It just seemed so strange for Father to be speaking to us like this – or even to be speaking to us at all.
“I decided to go through her things last week,” he said. “And I thought you girls should have this.” He reached down and opened the bottom drawer of his desk, pulling out a gift-wrapped parcel tied with a red bow. He handed it to Scarlet, who was nearest. “Merry Christmas and all that,” he said.
I nodded with wide eyes at Scarlet, and she immediately began tearing off the wrapping. Father wasn’t even watching us now, just staring out of the window again.
Inside was a brown cardboard box that Scarlet pulled open. And inside the box …
Firstly, there were two photographs. Scarlet pulled them out. In one, our mother and father’s faces gazed back at us. They stood together in front of a draped wall. Our mother clad in a beautiful white lace gown and headdress, and Father in a suit with a flower in the buttonhole. They were wearing the slightly serious faces of people who had to stay still for a photograph, but their happiness shone from their eyes.
“Your wedding picture,” I breathed. Why had Father never shown us this before? My glance lingered on it, taking in the details. I smiled at the sight of the familiar pearl necklace I’d inherited – a few dots of white round our mother’s neck – and at the bunch of white roses in her hand. Her arm was linked with Father’s. Things that perhaps meant nothing to anyone else, but meant everything to me and Scarlet.
Scarlet was smiling too. She put the photograph aside gently, taking great care not to damage it.
The one below was just as special. It was the two of them together again, but a little more recently. The picture was taken at a lake, with trees in the background. I wondered where it was, but it was nowhere I recognised – a strange reminder that our parents had had a whole life before us. This time our mother was wearing a dark-coloured cloche hat and a silky looking dress, and Father’s arm was round her. The bump under her dress gave away the fact that she was clearly several months pregnant.
I felt a lump rising in my throat.
Beneath the pictures, there was a fairly large carved wooden box, shiny with polish. Scarlet lifted it out and held it up to the light. Tiny silhouettes of ballerinas danced round the outside. Hesitantly, she lifted the catch on the front.
A familiar tune began to play, and a tiny ballerina in a white dress popped up from inside the box. She spun around in a never-ending pirouette, dancing in the firelight. Occasionally the tinny music gave a little jolt, and she would tilt slightly before carrying on.
We peered inside. There were a few trinkets in the bottom – some old rings and a pressed white rose that I realised was probably left over from their wedding.
Scarlet put the box down on the desk and threw her arms round Father, who looked shocked. “Thank you!” she exclaimed. “This is the best present ever!”
When she let go, he smiled softly for a moment. “Don’t mention it,” he said. Then his eyes slipped over us, and he went back to staring out of the window again. The moment melted away like the frost.
I’d barely noticed our stepmother’s stern looks over Christmas lunch. I hadn’t corrected Father when he accidentally called me “Ivy” twice. I hadn’t even had the urge to punch Joseph and John when they tried to put carrots in my hair.
I looked at the box and the photographs every chance I got. I almost felt like our mother was going to step out of them, somehow. Ivy and I opened the music box over and over again, watching the ballerina spin until the clockwork ran down and the final notes chimed slowly into the air.
“I know this tune,” Ivy had said after the first few listens. “It’s from the ballet Swan Lake!” I knew she was right as soon as she said it. I had sometimes heard our ballet teacher, Miss Finch, playing it on her piano.
But the more we listened, the more something began to stand out to me. It was that tiny jolt in the music. I held my ear close to it, and could hear a little click each time.
That Christmas evening, sitting on the floor in our dusty old bedroom, I opened it up again. I wondered if it always happened, or only sometimes. Was it just an accident, something that