The door is made of oak. It is heavy. It doesn't burn easily. I push it shut behind us, and the latch engages. Beside me, she steps forward, about to open it again. It is something stronger than fire that pulls her into that room.

The key that sits in the lock, unused since the days of Hester, is hot. It burns my palm as I turn it. Nothing else hurts me that night, but the key sears my palm and I smell my flesh as it chars. Emmeline puts out a hand to clutch the key and open it again. The metal burns her, and as she feels the shock of it, I pull her hand away.

A great cry fills my head. Is it human? Or is it the sound of the fire itself? I don't even know whether it is coming from inside the room or outside with me. From a guttural start it gathers strength as it rises, reaches a shrill peak of intensity, and when I think it must be at the end of its breath, it continues, impossibly low, impossibly long, a boundless sound that fills the world and engulfs it and contains it.

And then the sound is gone and there is only the roar of the fire.

Outdoors. Rain. The grass is soaked. We sink to the ground; we roll on the wet grass to damp our smoldering clothes and hair, feel the cool wet on our scorched flesh. On our backs we rest there, flat against the earth. I open my mouth and drink the rain. It falls on my face, cools my eyes, and I can see again. Never has there been a sky like it, deep indigo with fast-moving slate-black clouds, the rain coming down in blade edges of silver, and every so often a plume, a spray of bright orange from the house, a fountain of fire. A bolt of lightning cracks the sky in two, then again, and again.

The baby. I must tell Emmeline about the baby. She will be happy that I have saved him. It will make things all right. I turn to her and open my mouth to speak. Her face- Her poor beautiful face is black and red, all smoke and blood and fire. Her eyes, her green gaze, ravaged, unseeing, unknowing. I look at her face and cannot find my beloved in it. "Emmeline?" I whisper. "Emmeline?'* She does not reply. I feel my heart die. What have I done? Have I…? Is it possible that…? I cannot bear to know. I cannot bear not to know. "Adeline?" My voice is a broken thing. But she-this person, this someone, this one or the other, this might or might not be, this darling, this monster, this I don't know who she is-does not reply. People are coming. Running up the drive, voices calling urgently in the night.

I rise to a crouch and scuttle away. Keeping low. Hiding. They reach the girl on the grass, and when I am sure they have found her I leave them to it. In the church I put the satchel over my shoulder, clutching the baby in his papoose to my side, and set off.

It is quiet in the woods. The rain, slowed by the canopy of leaves, falls softly on the undergrowth. The child whimpers, then sleeps. My feet carry me to a small house on the other edge of the woods. I know the house. I have seen it often during my haunting years. A woman lives there, alone. Spying her through the window knitting or baking, I have always thought she looks nice, and when I read about kindly grandmothers and fairy godmothers in my books, I supply them with her face.

I take the baby to her. I glance in at the window, as I have before, see her in her usual place by the fire, knitting. Thoughtful and quiet. She is undoing her knitting. Just sitting there pulling the stitches out, with the needles on the table beside her. There is a dry place in the porch for the baby. I settle him there and wait behind a tree.

She opens the door. Takes him up. I know when I see her expression that he will be safe with her. She looks up and around. In my direction. As if she's seen something. Have I rustled the leaves, betrayed my presence? It crosses my mind to step forward. Surely she would befriend me? I hesitate, and the wind changes direction. I smell the fire at the same moment she does. She turns away, looks to the sky, gasps at the smoke that rises over the spot where Angelfield House stands. And then puzzlement shows in her face. She holds the baby close to her nose and sniffs. The smell of fire is on him, transferred from my clothes. One more glance at the smoke and she steps firmly back into her house and closes the door.

I am alone.

No name.

No home.

No family.

I am nothing.

I have nowhere to go.

I have no one who belongs to me.

I stare at my burned palm but cannot feel the pain.

What kind of a thing am I? Am I even alive?

I could go anywhere, but I walk back to Angelfield. It is the only place I know.

Emerging from the trees, I approach the scene. A fire engine. Villagers with their buckets, standing back, dazed and with smoke-blackened faces, watching the professionals do battle with the flames. Women, mesmerized by smoke rising into the black sky. An ambulance. Dr. Maudsley kneeling over a figure on the grass.

No one sees me.

On the edge of all the activity I stand, invisible. Perhaps I really am nothing. Perhaps no one can see me at all. Perhaps I died in the fire and haven't realized it yet. Perhaps I am finally what I have always been: a ghost.

Then one of the women looks in my direction.

"Look," she cries, pointing. "She's here!" and people turn. Stare. One of the women runs to alert the men. They turn from the fire and look, too. "Thank God!" someone says.

I open my mouth to say… I don't know what. But I say nothing. Just stand there, making shapes with my mouth, no voice, and no words.

"Don't try to speak." Dr. Maudsley is by my side now.

I stare at the girl on the lawn. "She'll survive," says the doctor.

I look at the house.

The flames. My books. I don't think I can bear it. I remember the page oijane Eyre, the ball of words I saved from the pyre. I have left it behind with the baby.

I begin to weep.

"She's in shock," says the doctor to one of the women. "Keep her warm and stay with her, while we put the sister in the ambulance."

A woman comes to me, clucking her concern. She takes off her coat and wraps it around me, tenderly, as though dressing a baby, and she murmurs, "Don't worry, you'll be all right, your sister's all right, oh, my poor dear."

They lift the girl from the grass and place her on the bed in the ambulance. Then they help me in. Sit me down opposite. And they drive us to the hospital.

She stares into space. Eyes open, empty. After the first moment I don't look. The ambulance man bends over her, assures himself that she is breathing, then turns to me.

"What about that hand, eh?" I am clutching my right hand in my left, unconscious of the pain in my mind, but my body giving the secret away.

He takes my hand, and I let him unfold my fingers. A mark is burned deep into my palm. The key.

"That'll heal up," he tells me. "Don't worry. Now, are you Adeline or are you Emmeline?"

He gestures to the other one. "Is this Emmeline?"

I can't answer, can't feel myself, can't move.

"Not to worry," he said. "All in good time."

He gives up on making me understand him. Mutters for his own benefit, "Still, we've got to call you something. Adeline, Emmeline, Emmeline, Adeline. Fifty-fifty, isn't it? It'll all come out in the wash."

The hospital. Opening the ambulance doors. All noise and bustle. Voices speaking fast. The stretcher, lifted onto a trolley and wheeled away at speed. A wheelchair. Hands on my shoulders. "Sit down, dear." The chair moving. A voice behind my back. "Don't worry, child. We'll take care of you and your sister. You're safe now, Adeline."

Miss Winter slept.

I saw the tender slackness of her open mouth, the tuft of unruly hair that did not lay straight from her temple, and in her sleep she seemed very, very old and very, very young. With every breath she took the bedclothes rose and fell over her thin shoulders, and at each sinking the ribboned edge of the blanket brushed against her face. She seemed unaware of it, but all the same, I bent over her to fold the covers back and smooth the curl of pale hair back into place.