- - - - -

- - - - -

Someone nudged her arm. Petunia Dursley startled and glanced at her nephew, trying to banish the red in her face in vain. She couldn't remember why memories of her sister assaulted her all of her sudden, memories of her childhood when she'd been called Petunia Evans. The only legacy from that time was the thin, raven-haired youth in front of her now, bordering along the edge of manhood. His glasses shone under the light; she swallowed and forcefully pushed away all her memories.

"What is it?" she said, more sharply than she intended, more sharply than she usually spoke. Her tone towards him was always biting, so she wasn't surprised when he barely acknowledged the venom in her voice. "If you're done then clean your own dishes. I expect you to fulfil your chores."

She didn't miss the way he glanced at Dudley, a look that was unconsciously pointed. As sharp as her voice; as sharp as Lily's tone had ever been when dealing with her, or any bullies at school. Lily had always been rather fine-boned; but she'd always been strong too, and literally magical.

"Are you going to keep glaring at your normal cousin," Petunia snapped, "or will you finish it by yourself?"

He glared at her, but did not bite. "I'll do it myself, Aunt Petunia."

He'd just risen to scrape of his plate when something exploded above their heads, with two cracks following soon afterwards..

And suddenly, everything seemed to be in slow motion. Petunia saw her husband rise, fear apparent in his eyes and in his every motion, she saw her oh so courageous son hide under the table, and she saw a black stick suddenly materialise in her nephew's hands. Petunia herself had not moved an inch, frozen, and stayed still until Harry scowled.

"Get up and run! It must be Voldemort!" he barked out an order, and Petunia was all too glad to listen this time. But then something occurred to her.

She leaned back and crossed her arms. "Don't order me around, you accursed nephew of mine."

"Aunt Petunia—"

"Voldemort can't touch you here, remember?" she pointed out sharply. "You haven't turned seventeen yet. And for heaven's sake, stick that thing back where it belongs, or the neighbours will see it. That man's followers aren't going to harm you without his order, and only he's to kill you. Besides, your friends keep tabs on you, and that accursed Arabella Finch too. And all those people from . . . from that place, with that dratted and rude girl with pink hair—"

"Tonks."

Petunia stared at her nephew. "Tonks?"

"Her name is Tonks." Harry said, then rushed out the door. Petunia narrowed her eyes and followed him, closing the door behind her. She almost bumped into Harry, who'd stopped abruptly. He was staring at the three people in front of him.

There were two people his age, one that Petunia vaguely recognised as one of those awful children who'd whisked Harry away in his second year at that school, and another that she'd met at the station the last time they'd picked Harry up. The ungrateful brat. And then she saw the third person, and her breath hitched, and she immediately started backing away in abrupt footsteps, eyes wide and air coming out in pants.

"No . . . " she said softly, only half-mindful that Harry was looking inquisitively at the horror on her face, "You—you're dead!"

"No." the woman straightened up, her tone sensible to Petunia's wavering. She was older now, but there was still the same baby-fat in her cheeks, and still a haunting beauty despite the dark circles under her eyes. "I'm alive. I'm very alive Petunia, and we have a lot to talk about."

"No we don't." said Petunia, while Harry said in surprise, "Ron! Hermione! It took you long enough to get back here!"

The woman scowled in apparent disappointment "Have you forgotten everything?"

Petunia took a deep, shuddering breath. "I only wish to god I have."

- - - - -

2

- - - - -

It didn't take long for someone like Petunia Evans to realise that everyone loved Lily.

Now, this wouldn't have bothered her—her parents loved each other, right?—except that Petunia noticed how easy it was to love Lily. As an infant and toddler Lily was the most adorable thing she'd ever seen, surpassing even the eloquent birds that sometimes landed on the bird-bath in their back yard. She couldn't help noticing the way Lily looked compared to her: the younger girl was rather fine-boned, with a Madonna-pretty face, and locks of red hair that were as thick as their mother's; her eyes were huge and almond-shaped, grasshopper green.

Lily had inherited the best out of both her parents, and while both their parents were good-looking, the combination only looked even better on someone like Lily. She'd already showed the signs of beauty at the tender age of four years old; pretty, and would some day have the type of warm, elegant beauty. But it went deeper than that. She'd started getting as inquisitive, and the clever mind showed on the set of her face.

Petunia, on the other hand, was nowhere near as blessed. Her hair was the type of blonde-brown that looked wonderful as a skin colour but completely and utterly horrible on the strands. She was taller than Lily, and while her bones weren't much bigger, the muscle accumulated in a way that negated the slenderness. Her eyes were odd in her family: large and pale, which looked wonderful on Rose but horrible on her. Her neck was too long, coupled with her heavy jaw and slightly hollowed cheeks, there was something slightly animalistic with her looks.

But while that would have been fine, her social status wasn't. Even at eight years old her only friend was the new girl, Laurel, and next to her Petunia felt just as gangly and ungraceful. However, when they were alone and playing with dolls, and later just playing around in the garden—Petunia loved gardening, especially her own namesake—she wouldn't feel nearly as naked. Their friendship ran deeper than that, however; Laurel knew so much about her family Petunia wasn't about to let her out.

One sunny day, three years after that first incident, when Petunia was going over to Laurel's for a bit of late tea, she asked her only friend, "Why haven't you told anyone?"

"Hm?" Laurel asked. Her face was almost vacant, but every time she grinned Petunia would be reminded of the wickedness and alertness in her mind. "About your sister? Oh, it's nothing special at all. I've seen lots of people who could do that. Why? Isn't it nice having a sister with strange abilities? I wouldn't mind having them at all, but Aunt Arabella says that I should have showed signs by now."

An older Petunia couldn't quite remember how long she'd stopped dead in her tracks, but she knew it had to have been a long time for Laurel to actually pause and glance back inquiringly. "What do you mean? Other people have these tricks? Your Aunt knows them as well?"

Laurel frowned and hooked her fingers under the straps of her schoolbag. "We're going there aren't we? You can ask her yourself. I don't know a lot about it, but though my aunt isn't as strange she'll probably know more than me. C'mon!"

". . . no." said Petunia, more forcefully than she'd intended. Smiling a little sheepishly, which she knew looked horrible on someone like her, she said a little more calmly, "please don't, Laurel. I don't want someone to know my sister's different. Being different is—not good in a place like this. I don't want to be different, with the way I look."

The Figg turned around completely and cast a critical eye over Petunia, and the girl couldn't help but squirm under her sharp gaze. Finally, Laurel relented. She turned back to the front and said, "Don't say that, Petunia. You look fine to me. Besides, it's not like anyone judges you on the way you look. No-one would care less!"

Petunia raced to catch up with her friend when she started walking again, footsteps thumping on the pavement. It didn't take long before they were side by side, footsteps tapping at the same time. They walked in silence for a while, but when Ms Arabella's house came into view, Petunia said slowly, "I really don't want to know that much about whatever it is. I think being normal is soothing. It's nice to have a little change; maybe more than a little change, but—it's just—is would be so hard if I didn't have something to rely on."

Laurel looked at her thoughtfully again. "You know, most people our age wouldn't think of things like this."

Petunia smiled wryly. "I suppose I'm a little strange myself."

- - - - -

It wasn't the first time Petunia had come over to Laurel's house but it was certainly the first that she'd met Arabella Figg. The last time they'd simply entered and then shot straight through the corridor, and then into Laurel's pink-and-sky-blue room, closing the door with an audible, but not too loud, bang. She had heard Ms Figg's voice many times before, however, when the woman asked if Laurel 'and her friend' wished to have a snack.

Laurel had warned her not to, and Petunia took her word for it.

They waved to Petunia's neighbour as they passed his house, a very strange, black-haired man who always took the chance to wave to them and hand them sweets, before running past, a giggle trapped in their throats. This time Petunia took only a quick look at Mr. I. M. Muggle (or so was displayed on his letterbox, which had no number but was painted in the design of a kilt) before turning back to Laurel.

This time the door was opened by a middle-aged woman with a kitten nuzzling her feet, and Petunia immediately realised this had to be Ms Figg. She had never really bothered to learn if it was a 'Ms' or a 'Mrs', but now that she'd seen the woman she had no doubt it was a 'Mrs'. Mrs Figg was, at first glance, the very old-fashioned, nurturing type. Her clothes weren't meant to be worn outdoors, and her slippers were worn thin, but comfortable-looking, and she had a rather homely look on her face.

"You must be Petunia Evans!" Mrs Figg exclaimed, not needing to look down to meet Petunia's dull brown eyes. It only hurt that Petunia knew this too. "Come in, come in. I'm Arabella Figg—Mrs Figg to you."

"Yes, Mrs Figg." Petunia said obediently. She slipped out of her school shoes and stepped inside. Brown eyes glanced absently across the interior of the room, before settling on the woman's face once more, and then at her own feet. She mumbled, "It's nice to meet you too." Even if she didn't find it particularly truthful.

She didn't know how Arabella Figg picked up on it as well, but she looked a little suspicious of her. Petunia hurriedly followed Laurel up to her room, stopping for a moment to remark on how neat and shiny the colours were. They suited her, but she wasn't sure how well it fit with Laurel. And she could tell that Mrs Figg was a cat-liking person, and cat-liking people never furnished their rooms with such fine furniture unless they were rich, or locked their cats into a cage all the time.

Petunia carefully put her bag in a corner and looked around the room. It was done up in a pale gold hue, like the rising sun, and that did suit her friend very well. She found herself smoothing her hands over the seat she took, admiring the fine crocheting.

"What do you think?" Laurel asked abruptly, a strange look on her face that Petunia couldn't quite read. Humouring Laurel, she looked down once more, and so she didn't realise that Laurel's face was serious when she said, "I don't think I can live here much longer."

Accordingly, Petunia let sprout a giggle, which she though was a rather appropriate accompaniment to a joke. It was only when she lowered her hand from her mouth and looked at Laurel intently that she saw the way the rosy mouth was turned down at the edges. She frowned and leaned forward, head propped on her hand and her elbows digging into her thighs. "What do you mean?" she asked with all the innocence that an eight-year-old could still have, "Are you moving? You don't look like you're going away, and—" Petunia lowered her gaze, "You're the only friend I have."

"Don't be silly." Laurel said briskly. "You'll make lots of friends." She looked down and frowned as well; then a sly smile spread across her face. "I know! Let's explore for a while and see what might be good about this place."

Petunia stared hard. She said with worry, "Will it be any use if Mrs Figg can't see it?"

Laurel took a deep breath. Her face and tone were kind when she told Petunia, "Sometimes, it's not just a place Petunia. When you move, it isn't always because you no longer see white letterboxes with black letters instead of yellow, or because there's a metre more grass around. It's always your friends that you miss, you know? When you feel like you need to leave someone behind, it just feels wrong."

"I don't have that many friends." Petunia reminded her own a little sadly. Still, her eyes looked thoughtful. "What do you mean, Laurel?"

Laurel sighed. "This place . . . is nice. It's very nice. But then sometimes I miss my family instead, and I miss my friends." She smiled at Petunia. "You're a very nice person Petunia. Really. And I'll come back and visit you! But maybe . . . it isn't my aunt that needs convincing."

"Laurel?"

The girl seemed to bolt up and snap out of her daze. "Never mind what I was saying, Petunia, but I still want to look around." She took Petunia's wrist and led her towards one of the overly large windows. "Let's go into that garden. The one with the big wall! We'll be like Rapunzel's dad, but we'll be doing it for fun instead."

Petunia examined it. Laurel was right, the wall was very tall and looked very old, with vines so brown they looked like dusty remainders of lush green ivy. Grass sprouted out of cracks, looking very much like the jagged peaks of the house inside. Everything was dark grey there, apart from the small patch of dark green in front, looking like some sort of herb garden. "But how will we get in, Laurel? I'm nowhere tall enough for that." She said dubiously.

Laurel merely giggled. "It'll be an adventure."

"I don't like adventures." Petunia said grumpily.

- - - - -

"I don't know how you managed to drag me here." Ten minutes later, Petunia felt as grumpy as she had before. The tall, dark, stone walls loomed above them. Petunia glared at an innocent blade of grass poking out of a crack in the wall, and in a moment of some emotion she hadn't felt before, she closed her fingers around it and uprooted the whole plant with a single tug. That colour had been too familiar, but she could not quite recall where she'd seen it.

Laurel, standing and looking at her intently, asked, "Are you nervous, or are you angry? Since you don't' really look afraid at all to be. Just bad tempered."

Petunia scowled at her. "I'm not afraid! I just don't want to sneak into someone else's garden like a thief. I remember that Rapunzel's father had to give up his baby, and I hope I don't' have to do that to some witch. But anyway, it's just a stupid idea. Fairy tales aren't real. Magic and stuff isn't real, and girl's throwing long braids out of towers aren't real either!"

"Geez, have some imagination won't you?" Laurel grumbled in return. She wedged her hand into one of the cracks experimentally, and then her other, then lifted her legs and hung off the ground as if she was holding onto a trapeze. Petunia could see Laurel's fingertips starting to grow white from the strain of dangling without much of a grip. Unexpectedly, Laurel sighed, "Can't get across here. And we've already searched all around! And Aunt Arabella wouldn't approve of this—not that she would be able to help. She doesn't have as much power as your sister does."

Petunia looked away. "Don't remind me of that."

"I won't say anything if you come with me inside!" Laurel countered smoothly, her face surprisingly sly and manipulative. She let go off the wall and landed on the ground with a barely-audible thump as grass was squashed beneath her feet. Blood had risen into her cheeks already. It was a bad sign, if Petunia knew any. This face—this face was dangerous. But . . .

"Fine." She said quietly, trying not to meet Laurel's eyes. But they were magnetic, and Petunia just couldn't look away. They were shining in triumph. For some reason, the look was uncomfortably familiar. But still, Laurel was her only friend, and she knew she was not exactly the most ordinary of the children at school. She would not back out now just because her friend looked satisfied that she'd found her way. Petunia would act like that too.

Laurel smiled and beckoned, and they started around the perimeter of the estate. From above, Petunia knew, it was a perfect square, but up close the wall seemed to bend backwards then forwards, in a zigzag line with in-numerous cracks running across. There were still traces of the crumbling brown dust on Laurel's fingers, which she was running along the edge of the wall. Curious, Petunia also placed her hand on the brown surface and swiped it across, trying to feel whatever her friend might have picked up on. But all that came out was a huge cloud of dust that engulfed both she and her friend.

It took some time before the cloud finally settled down, and for Petunia to stop coughing. When her sight finally cleared she looked down in dismay. Her uniform was completely ruined! Her mother would have a loud scolding for her, before she agreed to wash it until it was presentable. But her attention was immediately caught not by the dust which had mixed into the wool of her jumper which she always wore no matter the weather; an outline of a door had made itself known.

Laurel was staring at her with astonishment vivid in her eyes. "How did you know it was there! Even I didn't sense it—maybe heaven knows you might have your sister's abilities as well. Well—wouldn't that be nice."

Petunia scowled at her. "Not at all." But in a small, distant corner of her mind she could imagine fitting in with whoever else had those strange abilities, maybe being able to use them for trivial pursuits such as cleaning, keeping things neat. Maybe cooking—no! she couldn't think like that and hope to be strange. "Well, are we going to enter?"

"If you insist." Said Laurel with a cheeky grin. Her fingers traced the outline of a wooden door, hidden by trellises of dead ivy and dust which had only settled because of the way it was tucked in a niche and hidden from the howling winds that came with winter. The door was strangely silent as it swung in.

Petunia hesitated. "Are you sure we should be doing this?"

Laurel merely grinned. "Why not?" and she grabbed Petunia by the arm and pulled her in.

Almost immediately the door swung shut behind them, as a blast of stale air hit here. The passage was very old. Petunia executed a brilliant twirl that would have made a ballerina envious, and stared hard at the door. She pushed her hand down and tried to open the door. Her reward was a sore shoulder and an equally sore leg, a failed attempt at kicking the door down. Somehow, that bundle of twigs was strong even though the walls were crumbling. "I knew this was a bad idea." She muttered, voice almost echoing in the still air.

"Don't worry." Laurel said confidently, striding in. "If there's a way in then there's a way out."

"Unless the entrance and exit are one and the same." Petunia retorted. She waited patiently, and sure enough, her eyes began to adjust to the very dim light; the source was almost invisible holes pricked through the ceiling, permitting only beams of light as thin as string, until it looked more like a mist of white than any wave. Slowly, she pressed her hand to the wall and walked forward cautiously, following Laurel's footsteps, soft but clear from her oversensitive ears. Every breath she took was perfectly audible.

It did not take Petunia very long to realise that the path was starting to slope. After a moment she asked hesitantly, "Do you think we're underground?"

"I. . . I think so." Laurel replied hesitatingly. She tried to make a joke. "You'd never had thought we'd find something so strange in such an ordinary neighbourhood!"

"Between you and Lily, I don't think it's ordinary at all." Petunia shot back quickly. She paused, then inquired thoughtfully, "If it's so boring, why do you stay?"

The footsteps stopped. Petunia paused and glanced up, making out Laurel's petite figure in the dim light. "My parents—we'll, I'll just say that I don't have a choice in living with my aunt. As for Aunt Arabella: I do not know why she lives here at the moment, but she doesn't have any abilities of her own. You know ESP and stuff. I think it's got something to do with that cat shelter though. I'm not sure how long she's going to stay. Actually . . . I don't know much about her at all. Maybe she isn't involved in that world."

"What world?" asked Petunia sharply. She almost ran into Laurel as she started walking again, but turned her body sideways and slid smoothly beside her, taking first spot. She continued keeping pace; soon the footsteps started again, slow at first but soon as steady as her own. Despite that, her face was grim.

"Nothing." Laurel replied after a few moments. "I think. We'll see, though, won't we?"

"Laurel?"

This time it was Laurel who ran straight into her. "Why'd you stop, Petunia?"

"I think there's an opening." Was the swift response. Petunia brushed her hands forward, trying to feel any surface above her or in front for a space that might indicate escape from this deathly dungeon. "But it might just be that we're trapped won here Laurel. I can't see an exit."

"Oh, let me see!" Laurel demanded. She pulled, not too harshly, on Petunia's sleeve and brushed her aside. Petunia couldn't see what had happened, but Laurel informed her, "Maybe you should rub your hands across again. It worked last time." Petunia did not come forwards, so she murmured, "I'll do it myself, then." She ran her hands across the surface.

Almost instantly a fog of dust arose, choking off Petunia's breathing like a filthy miasma. The dirt rolled her tongue. She found herself choking and gagging in moments, trying desperately to see past the dirty mist that had soaked up all the light. Now it was almost pitch black, and even if it were not Petunia had an awful feeling that, even if she came into light, she could not see. She shuddered. The darkness . . . it closed around her, as if the walls were moving in and on the verge of grounding her body into dust as fine as the fog. Maybe it was what the dust was made of in the first place—people who were too curious for their own good and were trapped here.

Laurel . . . after a moment, Petunia became aware of something cool sliding into her. It was not physical, exactly, but the change was very explicit right then. It took long seconds before she dared open her eyes once more. Laurel was standing over her with worry, and somehow the air seemed denser around her hands.

Petunia's eyes widened. "Laurel, you—"

Laurel smiled thinly, not hiding the worry in her face. As it was, Petunia could not quite understand why she was not shouting. She, certainly, felt like shrieking her lungs hoarse until her throat ground together and became even more parched than it already was. An older Petunia would wonder time after time, either sitting at the dinner table or looking through old photographs or diaries of her school days, who Laurel really was, that she, at just nine—she was some months older than Petunia—acted almost like an adult in rare occasions. "I suppose I came into what was rightfully mine after all. But enough of that. Come on, let's get you out."

Sunlight was streaming in so Petunia did not protest. She allowed herself to be dragged out and spread out on the grass so sunlight hit her forehead and splayed shadows along the back of her eyelids. She sunlight was warm, and safe, and soothing, and above all it was light—it had all been in her head, Petunia suddenly realised. The dust triggered it, but the main effect had taken place inside her mind. The wonders of the human brain—she shuddered, even though it was as far as her train of thought went before being derailed because she knew nothing more detailed than that.

"What do you think, Petunia?" Laurel asked. The girl was sitting down beside her. "It's quite nice."

And it was nice, but Petunia did not particularly care for the beautifully neat garden or the trimmed rows of lavenders, as much as she usually admired the sanctuaries they could become. Trees with brilliant blossoms were tucked carefully into corners to make the biggest possible contrast between the bricks of the walls, with lemon trees on which were hanging bright yellow bulbs, and miniature oranges, and—

Wait a minute. . .

"Laurel . . ." Petunia said carefully, catching her friend's eye. "Do you notice something wrong with this picture?"

The auburn haired girl turned to look at her, "What do you mean, Petunia?"

"Um . . . weren't the walls, really very old when she looked at them?" Petunia answered, pointing at the red brick tiles. "And this certainly looks like the garden we saw, so we couldn't have gone past it." Something was bothering her. It was a feeling she'd ignored for years, but still knew was out of place in times like this. When she was almost alone. An irregular tickling in the back of her head . . .

She spun around, almost stumbling in her haste to move further away.

- - - - -

The inside of the house was even bigger than she'd thought.

It was the oldest house she'd ever seen, with a checkerboard floor of black and white marble stretching the expanse of each room she looked in. If she had agoraphobia this house would be a nightmare. As it was only a flickering candle ahead of her kept her from racing away from the darkness hiding whatever might lurk in shadowy corners. But Yvonne liked the house, so Petunia supposed it was not too afraid. No girl of eight years she knew would be content to stay in such a strange place if they did not feel it was perfectly safe.

But still, it was very odd. Petunia found herself listening attentively for any sounds apart from the soft footsteps of the three girls clattering on the floor, looking for signs of inhabitancy such as a wrinkle on one of the perfectly straight couches, or maybe something slightly dusty, and feeling out for any hint of memory lingering in the wake of the owners. Now what this place needed, she thought, was a Lily Evans to liven things up. Her sister could shriek loudly like no one else, and then pretend that she'd been an angel the whole time.

That was it. This place was as empty as a bag of bones, where the soul had strayed away after being unanchored, and flitted up to the other side of the sky. It was too perfect, which was strange, because Petunia liked perfectly very much. Everything being nice and neat and straight was a welcome change from the chaos that seemed to follow her sister on her wanderings around the house. Lily, when she wished it, was a weather front difficult to ignore.

The loud clatter of her footsteps when she almost slipped made her wince. "I know it's not my place to criticise," she finally murmured, "but how can you live here?"

Yvonne Bloom, the young girl who lived here, turned to look at her. "I'm not really given a choice," she admitted, sounding unusually open to almost-strangers she'd only met a few times at school, the first time they'd spoken on a purely social basis. She hastily sat down, her hair falling into that same, rod-straight fashion down her back.

A classmate from school, though not a particularly close friend, the only feature of Yvonne Petunia could ever seem to remember was the thick locks of hair, an auburn shade of chestnut brown, framing her face. Now that they'd talked the particularly intense, blue eyes that peered out severely at the world, as if scolding whoever came into her sight. Coupled with the unnatural straightness about her, Yvonne was a personification of the perfect rooms, not to mention her social-studies teacher at school who was so bland only the insipid way her voice droned on could be memorized by any of her students. It was as if someone had hooked some strange machine directly to Yvonne's mind and pumped out everything that made her unique until she was no different than the poster-girl girls. She was so unoriginal Petunia would have forgotten her a moment later but for her startling looks and the great big house.

They proceeded to pass through a sizable number of rooms before entering one the size of the ground floor of Petunia's house. Yvonne gestured for them to sit, then crossed the room and flicked on one of the light switches. Light from a crystal chandelier immediately illuminated the room, casting away all shadows, and revealing cream coloured beds in the corner previously hidden. Yvonne smiled sheepishly, already looking different from the plain girl Petunia remembered.

"This is my bedroom." She told Rose and Laurel, who'd been silent all the way, "It's the only one with electrical lights since it costs too much to have the whole house wired up. My parents are not home and my minder is away shopping for groceries, so it's only us. And no, before you ask, I don't get lost in such a big place. I've lived here all my life. I suppose I'm used to the same corridors by now."

Petunia frowned and tugged on a sprig of her straight blonde hair. She did not bother braiding it now that it had been chopped off to frame her jaw. "Don't you get lonely here by yourself, Yvonne? There wouldn't be many people visiting a place like this without invitations."

Yvonne smiled sadly. "I'm used to it by now. And I suppose both of you understand what I'm talking about, don't you?"

"It's a nice place, though." Laurel offered, "Even if it's so big."

Petunia suddenly remembered that Yvonne was one of the people who always seemed to have many friends, but never really let her talk. She would sit with a huge crowd of giggling girls, and she'd watch from the sidelines as Yvonne tried to speak unsuccessfully. That had been a year ago. Now Petunia felt ashamed that her gaze just seemed to roll off Yvonne every single time she glanced at the girls. Yvonne, like Petunia, always stayed by the sidelines.

"That it is," said Yvonne, her smile a little more cheerful as she too settled one of the big armchairs. "So tell me—Laurel is it?—and Petunia, do you like my room? I chose a few of the designs myself, but most of it was there when we arrived, according to mother. That chair—I chose it, and that table I almost never use. But the clothes aren't really my choice at all."

The chair looked like it was made of dark solid wood, rather than that strange mix of glue and sawdust from before. Flame-patterned and coloured stitching was set on a golden background, as if jeering at the room and actively defying the perfection which was comforting and yet stark and frightening most of the time. The table was made of the same, black-brown wood but had numerous scratches that directly opposed Yvonne's words. Brightly coloured sheets of paper and coloured pencils were scattered over the surface, knocked out of the jar.

Out of the corner of her eyes, Petunia could see Yvonne following her gaze and frowning. She rose and gathered the pencils together, although she did not bother putting it back in the holder. All of a sudden, Petunia wondered why she had never spoken to Yvonne before. Inside she knew the answer—that someone like Yvonne probably lived a charmed life and would want nothing to do with the likes of her—but she refused to acknowledge that.

She took a good look around. "It is . . . very clean. What do you think, Laurel? Do you like cream and pure white?"

The girl was grinning. "You know, Yvonne, there's another way of living. I should show you to my Aunt's house, where I'm living for the moment, and introduce you to her many pets. You look like you need one. And her furniture—well, it's completely opposite yours. What do you say?"

"Laurel?" Petunia asked once more.

"Oh? Oh. I think white is fine, but sometimes there's too much whiteness and it blinds you. Do you like it, Yvonne?"

Yvonne said, "Like I said, I don't really have a choice." She shrugged. "I might leave when I'm older, you know, to see the world?"

Petunia wondered why they were acting so close so quickly.

"But like I said, we don't really have a choice in what we do. We're children." Yvonne continued. "And children never have choices. We always follow what adults say because they are in charge. I don't know if I want to though. But that would be making a choice, when someone else always does that for me. I know—let me show you where I play!"

An older Petunia would wonder if she'd ever managed to grow up.

- - - - -

To be continued . . .

- - - - -