Emma nodded, her big brown eyes wide with wonder.

I left her with a small coloring book and a broken crayon, praying she would stay put.

But Emma had never been good at sitting still.

Ten minutes later, while I was upstairs dusting the guest rooms, she wandered out of the pantry.

She followed the smell of warm sugar straight into the main kitchen.

Mrs. Higgins, the head cook, was standing by the large marble island, rolling out pastry dough.

She was a large woman with a reputation for throwing copper pans when she was angry.

When she turned around, she found Emma sitting on the tiled floor, staring up at her.

“Well, bless my soul,” Mrs. Higgins gasped, dropping her rolling pin. “Where did you come from?”

Emma didn’t cry.

She pointed at the flour dusting Mrs. Higgins’s white apron.

“Snow,” Emma giggled, clapping her hands.

By the time I realized Emma was gone and ran down the back stairs, my chest tight with terror, the kitchen was silent.

I braced myself to be fired on the spot.