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She had never cried so hard in her life. The moon drew the sound out of her as if she were a dog. She cried because Muffet loved her and because Hyacinth didn’t. She cried for Mrs. Lambert, who was nice, and for Caroline, who had died when she was eight years old. She cried because she had been left alone in a burning house and because she had not been good. She cried for fear, because she was afraid of the dark, and she cried for loneliness, because no one knew she was alive.

When Maud awoke the next morning, the smell of smoke was still in her nostrils.

She sat up shivering. She had burrowed in the sand the night before, with a vague notion that it would keep her warm, but she was cold and damp as well as gritty. The skin over her right elbow felt stretched — when Maud ran her fingers over it, she discovered a mountain range of scabs. She thought that her back was scraped, but she couldn’t reach the places that hurt. Her mouth was dry and her stomach was empty.

She got up, shook the sand out of her dress as best she could, and looked out over the water. The sun had risen behind her; the sea foam glistened, and the sky was streaked with mare’s tails. The gulls swooped and screamed above the waves. Maud stumbled down to the ocean. She thought longingly of the water closet in Victoria’s cottage. When she came out of the water, she was red-faced with shame. She pitied the tourists who would bathe in the ocean that day.

The boardwalk was almost deserted, which was a relief; Maud was fairly certain she looked awful. As a shabby child, she had passed among the crowds unnoticed; in Caroline’s frilly dress, with its torn lace and bloodstains, she was a thing to be stared at. Maud ducked her head and walked briskly. Before long, she stood before Victoria’s cottage, surveying the wreckage.

The cottage was still standing. Maud was surprised; she had expected to find it a heap of ashes. Nevertheless, the damage was substantial. The front of the building was scorched, and the porch had collapsed. The entire front was off-kilter, as if the frame of the house was buckling. The back of the house was still intact. Maud toyed with the idea of scurrying up the back stairs to see if any of her clothes had survived the fire. Then she shrugged. It wasn’t worth it.

She headed back to the boardwalk and set off for the Amusement Park. When she reached the gates, she stopped. They were chained and padlocked. Maud’s lip curled. It took her less than a minute to scramble to the top of the fence and leap down.

It was queer, seeing the park by day. The booths that seemed to glow in the dark were only wooden boxes; the painted signs, with their unlit lightbulbs, were lackluster, like stained glass after sunset. Maud made her way straight to the merry-go-round. Now that the park was deserted, she could see that the carousel stood at its center. All paths led to it. It was no accident that she had been drawn here, or Caroline before her.

She stepped up on the carousel platform, searching for Angel. Her eyes fell upon an eyesore: a great mound of a man, fast asleep on a heap of blankets. It was Rory. Maud could scarcely believe her luck. She had thought she would have to wait to see him, perhaps for hours. Instead, there he lay, his feet beneath the paws of the tiger.

Maud eyed him nervously. Grown-ups didn’t like being awakened, and Rory Hugelick was a man. Stalling for time, she went to Angel and put her arms around his neck. His glassy eyes were full of compassion. Maud fitted her fingers into the furrows of his mane. A fragment of memory swam to the surface of her mind. She had dreamed again last night, a surprisingly buoyant and blissful dream. She had been riding Angel, while Caroline rode the sea monster in front of her. From time to time, Caroline twisted around to wave at her, shouting with excitement. Together they had floated and whirled, calling to each another in shrill delight.

The carousel keeper stirred. His eyes blinked, passed over Maud, and came back to her. A short, interrogatory