“I can’t move my leg, Claire,” she had gasped into the receiver. “The ambulance is coming now.”

I had stood in the drafty kitchen of my tiny apartment, holding the phone to my ear.

My heart had plummeted.

If I didn’t show up for my shift at Mercer House, Margaret Bell would fire me without a second thought.

I had spent my last ten dollars on the bus fare for the week.

“We have to go, Emma,” I had whispered, waking my three-year-old from her warm bed.

I bundled her into her worn winter coat and two pairs of mismatched socks.

We walked through the biting sleet to the bus stop, Emma clutching her ragged stuffed bear to her chest.

When we arrived at the iron gates of the Mercer estate, the snow was falling so thick I could barely see the limestone pillars.

I snuck her through the back servants’ entrance, my hands shaking as I unlocked the heavy oak door.

The mudroom smelled of pine cleaner and wet wool.

“You must be very quiet, sweetie,” I whispered, hiding her behind a stack of clean laundry in the pantry. “Like a little mouse.”