The Wonder

by Emma Donoghue

“Nan,” said Anna, repeating the syllable with a grave delight. “Eight years old. Far, far away.”

She wasn’t the girl’s friend at this moment;

“The price of a new life. Let me feed you. Open your mouth.”

Now, the hour of our death.

The grace to take food,

the fast was broken.

“Dead,” Anna whispered. “Yes, Anna’s dead.”

“Wake up, Nan. Time to begin your new life.”

Through my fault, through my fault. It was Lib who’d bear all the blame for luring this radiant girl back into the land of exile.

Lib went back to the bedroom and scooped her up. Not heavy at all. (She thought of her own baby,

Lib held out her burden.

Fear not. Only believe, and she shall be safe.

Cleaned by fire, only by fire.

Two weeks ago, newly arrived, she’d imagined herself impressing the locals with her meticulous account of exposing a hoax. Not looking like this: ash-streaked, crippled, trembling.

“His ways are mysterious.”

“Has the child gone to a better place—can you promise me that much?” One more nod.

Odd, that it was this detail she couldn’t bear to remember: the constant light on that small sleeper.

7 APRIL 1848–20 AUGUST 1859 GONE HOME

Hungry for the future.