molished； it was time for them to start building the future。
i took the envelope from my bag。 i had been waiting。 for the right time。 the right place。
the letters on the envelope were curiously misformed。 the uneven strokes either faded into nothing or else were engraved into the paper。 there was no sense of flow： each letter gave the impression of having been pleted individually； at great cost； the next undertaken as a new and daunting enterprise。 it was like the hand of a child or a very old person。 it was addressed to miss margaret lea。
i slit open the flap。 i drew out the contents。 and i sat on a felled tree to read it； because i never read standing up。
dear margaret；here is the piece i told you about。
i have tried to finish it； and find that i cannot。 and so this story that the world has made so much fuss about must do as it is。 it is a flimsy thing： something of nothing。 do with it what you will。
as for titles； the one that springs to my mind is “cinderella’s child； ” but i know quite enough about readers to understand that whatever i might choose to call it； it will only ever go by one title in the world； and it won’t be mine。
there was no signature。 no name。
but there was a story。
it was the story of cinderella； like i’d never read it before。 laconic； hard and angry。 miss winter’s sentences were shards of glass； brilliant and lethal。
picture this； the story begins。 a boy and a girl； one rich； one poor。 most often it’s the girl who’s got no gold and that’s how it is in the story i’m telling。 there didn’t have to be a ball。 a walk in the woods was enough for these two to stumble into each other’s paths。 once upon a time there was a fairy godmother； but the rest of the time there was none。 this story is about me of those other times。 our girl’s pumpkin is just a pumpkin； and she crawls home after midnight； blood on her petticoats； violated。 there will be a footman at the door with moleskin slippers tomorrow。 she knows that already。 she’s not stupid。 she is pregnant； though。
in the rest of the story； cinderella gives birth to a girl； raises her in poverty and filth； abandons her after a few years in the grounds of the house owned by her violator。 the story ends abruptly。
halfway along a path in a garden she has never been to before； cold and hungry； the child suddenly realises she is alone。 behind her is the garden door that leads into the forest。 it remains ajar。 is her mother behind it still？ ahead of her is a shed that； to her child’s mind； has the look of a little house。 a place she might shelter。 who knows； there might even be something to eat。
the garden door？ or the little house？
door？ or house？
the child hesitates。
she hesitates…
and the story ends there。
miss winter’s earliest memory？ or just a story？ the story invented by an imaginative child to fill the space where her mother ought to have been？
the thirteenth tale。 the final； the famous； the unfinished story。
i read the story and grieved。
gradually my thoughts turned away from miss winter and to myself。 she might not be perfect； but at least i had a mother。 was it too late to make something of ourselves？ but that was another story。
i put the envelope in my bag； stood up and brushed the bark dust from my trousers before heading back to the road。
i was engaged to write the story of miss winter’s life； and i have done it。 there is really nothing more i need do in order to fulfill the terms of the contract。 one copy of this document is to be deposited with mr。 lomax； who will store it in a bank vault and then arrange for a large amount of money to be paid to me。 apparently he doesn’t even have to check that the pages i give him are not blank。
‘she trusted you；“ he told me。
clearly she did trust me。 her intentions in the contract that i never read or signed are quite unmistakable。 she wanted to tell me the story before she died； she wanted me to make a record of it。 what i did with it after that was my business。 i have told the solicitor about my intentions regarding tom and emma； and we have made an appointment to formalize my wishes in a will just in case。 and that ought to be the end of it。
but i don’t feel i am quite done。 i don’t know who or how many people will eventually read this； but no matter how few they are； no matter how distant in time from this moment； i feel a responsibility toward them。 and although i have told them all there is to know about adeline and emmeline and the ghost…child； i realize that for some that will not be quite enough。 i know what it is like to finish a book and find oneself wondering； a day or a week later； what happened to the butcher or who got the diamonds； or whether or not the dowager was ever reconciled with her niece。 i can imagine readers pondering what became of judith and maurice； whether anyone kept up the glorious garden； who came to live in the house。
and so； in case you are wondering； let me tell you。 judith and maurice stayed on。 the house was not sold； provision had been made in miss winter’s will for the house and garden to be converted into a kind of literary museum。 of course it is the garden that has real value （“an unsuspected gem；” an early horticultural review has called it）； but miss winter realized that it was her reputation for storytelling more than her gardening skill that would draw the crowds。 and so there are to be tours of the rooms； a teashop； and a bookshop。 coaches that bring tourists to the bronte museum can e afterward to “vida winter’s secret garden。” judith will continue as housekeeper； and maurice as head gardener。 their first job； before the conversion can begin； is to clear emmeline’s rooms。 these will not be visited； for there will be nothing to see。
and hester。 now； this will surprise you； it certainly surprised me。 i had a letter from emmanuel drake。 to tell you the truth； i’d forgotten all about him。 slowly and methodically he continued his searches； and against all odds； late in the day； he found her。 “it was the italian connection that threw me off track；” his letter explained； “when your governess had gone the other way entirely—to america！” for three years hester had worked as clerical assistant to an academic neurologist； and when the time was up； guess who came to join her？ dr。 maudsley！ his wife died （nothing more sinister than the flu； i did check）； and within days of the funeral he was on the boat。 it was love。 they are both deceased now； but after a long and happy life together。 they had four children； one of whom has written to me； and i have sent the original of his mother’s diary to him to keep。 i doubt he will be able to make out much more than one word in ten； if he asks me for elucidation； i will tell him that his mother knew his father here in england； during the time of his father’s first marriage； but if he does not ask； i will keep my silence。 in his letter to me； he enclosed a list of his parents’ joint publications。 they researched and wrote dozens of highly regarded articles （none on twins； i think they knew when to call it a day） and published them jointly： dr。 e。 and mrs。 h。 j。 maudsley。
h。 j。？ hester had a middle name： josephine。
what else will you want to know？ who looked after the cat？ well； shadow came to live with me at the bookshop。 he sits on the shelves； anywhere he can find a space between the books； and when customers e across him there； he returns their stares with placid equanimity。 from time to time he will sit in the window； but not for long。 he is baffled by the street； the vehicles； the passersby； the buildings opposite。 i have shown him the shortcut via the alley to the river； but he scorns to use it。
‘what do you expect？“ my father says。 ”a river is no use to a yorkshire cat。 it is the moors he is looking for。“
i think he is right。 full of expectation； shadow jumps up to the window； looks out； then turns on me a long； disappointed stare。
i don’t like to think that he is homesick。
dr。 clifton came to my father’s shop—he happened to be visiting the town； he said； and remembering that my father had a bookshop here； he thought it worthwhile to call in； though it was something of a long shot； to see if we had a particular volume on eighteenth…century medicine he was interested in。 as it happened； we did have one； and he and my father chatted amiably about it at length； until well after closing time。 to make up for keeping us so late he invited us out for a meal。 it was very pleasant； and since he was still in town for another night； my father invited him the next evening for a meal with the family。 in the kitchen my mother told me he was “a very nice man； margaret。 very nice。” the next afternoon was his last。 we went for a walk by the river； but this time it was just the two of us； father being too busy writing letters to be able to acpany us。 i told him the story of the ghost of angelfield。 he listened closely； and when i had finished； we continued to walk； slowly and in silence。
‘i remember seeing that treasure box；“ he said eventually。 ”how did it e to escape the fire？“
i stopped in my tracks； wondering。 “you know； i never thought to ask。”
‘you’ll never know now； will you？“
he took my arm