Free The Wonder by Emma Donoghue

dark strands came out on the teeth. That troubled Lib. For a child to be losing her hair like a woman past the prime…
She’s doing this to herself,
Lib reminded herself.
It’s all part of an elaborate trick she’s playing on the world.
    Anna made the sign of the cross again as she got into bed. She sat up against the bolster, reading her Psalms.
    Lib stayed by the window, watching orange streaks scrape the western sky. Was there any tiny cache of crumbs she could have missed? Tonight was when the girl would seize her chance; tonight, when the nun would be here in place of Lib. Were Sister Michael’s ageing eyes sharp enough? Her wits?
    Kitty carried in a taper in a stubby brass candlestick.
    â€œSister Michael will need more than that,” said Lib.
    â€œI’ll bring another, so.”
    â€œHalf a dozen candles won’t be enough.”
    The maid’s mouth hung a little open.
    Lib tried for a conciliatory tone. “I know it’s a lot of trouble, but I wonder whether you could get hold of some lamps?”
    â€œWhale oil do be a shocking price these days.”
    â€œThen some other kind of oil.”
    â€œI’ll have to see what I can find tomorrow,” said Kitty with a yawn.
    She came back in a few minutes with some milk and oatcakes for Lib’s supper.
    As Lib buttered the oatcakes, her eyes slid to Anna, still lost in her book. Quite a feat, to go all day on an empty stomach and give the impression of not noticing food, let alone caring about it. Such control in one so young; dedication, ambition, even. If these powers could be turned to some good purpose, how far might they take Anna O’Donnell? From having nursed alongside a variety of women, Lib knew that self-mastery counted for more than almost any other talent.
    She kept one ear open to the clinks and murmurings around the table on the other side of the half-open door. Even if the mother proved to be blameless as far as the hoax went, she was relishing the fuss, at the very least. And there was the money box by the front door. How did the old proverb go?
Children are the riches of the poor.
Metaphorical riches—but sometimes the literal kind too.
    Anna turned the pages, her mouth forming silent words.
    A stir in the kitchen. Lib put her head out and saw Sister Michael taking off her black cloak. She gave the nun a courteous nod.
    â€œYou’ll kneel down with us, won’t you, Sister?” asked Mrs. O’Donnell.
    The nun murmured something about not liking to keep Mrs. Wright waiting.
    â€œThat’s quite all right,” Lib felt obliged to say.
    She turned back to Anna. Who was standing so close behind—spectral in her nightdress—that Lib flinched. That string of brown seeds ready in the child’s hand.
    Anna slipped past Lib to kneel between her parents on the earth floor. The nun and the maid were down already, each fingering the little cross at the end of her rosary beads.
“I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth.”
The five voices rattled out the words.
    Lib could hardly leave now, because Sister Michael’s eyes were shut and her face in its obstructive headdress was bent over her joined hands; nobody was keeping a sharp eye on Anna. So Lib went and sat by the wall, with a clear view of the girl.
    The gabbling changed to the Lord’s Prayer, which Lib remembered from her own youth. How little she retained of all that. Perhaps faith had never had much of a hold on her; over the years it had fallen away, with other childish things.
    â€œAnd forgive us our trespasses”
—here they all thumped their chests in unison, startling Lib—“
as we forgive those who trespass against us.”
    She thought perhaps they’d stand up and say their good nights now. But no, the group plunged into a Hail Mary, and then another, and another. This was ridiculous; was Lib to be stuck here all evening? She blinked to moisten her