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Maud glowed at the praise. She continued to bang out “Mary Had a Little Lamb” until Judith announced that she had a headache and told Maud to take the glockenspiel up to the third floor.

“Judith is such a wet blanket,” Hyacinth whispered as she and Maud tiptoed up the back stairs. “She doesn’t mind the séances, but she never gets any fun out of them, poor thing. Of course, during the séances, the room will be dark. You’ll have to make music without being able to see. You might as well practice that way — with your eyes shut.”

“That’s impossible,” complained Maud, more for the pleasure of arguing than anything else. With Hyacinth’s praise ringing in her ears, she felt she could do anything.

Hyacinth laughed softly. “It won’t be so very difficult,” she coaxed, touching the mallet to the tip of Maud’s nose. “An ordinary child couldn’t play music in the dark, but it will be nothing for you.”

Maud ducked her head, trying to conceal her happiness. When Hyacinth teased and flattered her, she was helpless to resist. Once upstairs, she began to practice with her eyes squeezed shut, using her left hand to measure the space between the notes. It was less difficult than she had expected.

She found the glockenspiel so enthralling that she could hardly tear herself away long enough to eat. She abandoned her studies of history, geography, and arithmetic, and Hyacinth defended her. “It’s nearly summer anyway,” she told Victoria, “and music is essential to a young lady’s education.”

On the third day after Hyacinth’s return, Maud made an earth-shaking discovery: she could play harmonies. If she struck one note with the mallet and another with the end of a pencil, she could make chords. She was banging her way up and down the scale when she heard heavy footsteps on the staircase. The footsteps were accompanied by a curious droning noise. It was Muffet.

Maud felt a twinge of conscience. It had been days since she provided Muffet with any new words. The hired woman had taken to staring hypnotically at Maud when she waited at table. She wanted more nouns. Maud sighed. She wished she could explain to Muffet just how fascinating the glockenspiel was.

Muffet came into the room. There was a look of wonder and rapture on her face. She held open a tattered book, which Maud recognized as collection of recipes. Muffet held out the book and pointed to the words sugar, milk, and bowl. These were words that Maud had taught her. All at once, Maud understood. Muffet was reading.

Maud’s face lit up. “That’s right, Muffet!” she exclaimed. “See, this book has lots of words you know — you might even be able to read a whole recipe!” She thumbed through the pages. “Here’s one for apple pie — you know how to make that, and you know most of the words.” She pointed them out. “Flour — lard — apples.” She mimed washing. Wash apples. It was one of the verbs she had succeeded in teaching. “Wash and peel —”

Muffet shook her head. Her finger poked at the word apple. Maud had come to understand this gesture as a request for information.

“You know that one, Muffet. Apple.” Maud made her hand into a circle and mimed taking a bite. “Apple.”

Muffet dismissed the mime with another shake of the head.

Maud pointed to Muffet’s pocket. “Give me your tablet,” she said impatiently. She dug into Muffet’s apron and took out the notebook that had become Muffet’s dictionary. She leafed through the pages, looking for the drawings she had made. “Here. I taught you.” She thumped the page, where she had drawn a circle with a stem. APPLE. She pointed at the word.

Obstinately, Muffet shook her head. She took a pencil from her pocket and copied the word from the book: apple. Then she thumped the page.

“I taught you that. See, it’s right here —” Maud began. Then she groaned, seeing the problem. She had written the words for Muffet’s dictionary in both capital and small letters, depending on her mood at the time. Muffet had learned the words exactly as written. To