Page 27 of Mad Mabel

The audacity.

I glance out into the laneway for her mother, but of course she’s nowhere to be seen. For pity’s… no.

By the time I make it into the kitchen, she’s biting into a Granny Smith.

“I prefer Pink Lady apples,” she says, observing the apple as if it’s committed an egregious sin, then immediately takes another large bite. “Why are you still in your robe? I thought grannies got up early.”

I glance at the clock, wondering when it became my job to feed this intrusion breakfast.

“Got anything baked?” She’s still chewing—apple juice glistening on her lips.

“Nope. Nothing baked.”

She opens my fridge and peers inside, undaunted. “I thought grannies always baked. Muffins and cakes and scones. I’m not a fan of scones, though, so don’t bake them.”

“I won’t.” I flick on the kettle and drop a coffee bag into a mug.

“You could bake an apple pie!” Persephone’s eyes widen. “Apple pies are my favorite. Mmm-mmm dee-licious.”

I lean against the counter and cross my arms, aiming for stern and unwelcoming—though judging by her complete lack of concern, Imight as well have thrown on a party hat. “Won’t your mother be looking for you?”

“She’s sleeping.”

Sleeping! For pity’s sake. “What time does school start?”

“Eight thirty,” she says, opening the pantry.

I glance at the clock again. It’s creeping up on twenty past. Roxanne and Persephone don’t have a car, and the walk would be fifteen minutes at least. Back in my day we were reprimanded for tardiness, but from what I hear, schools don’t reprimand. Nowadays they like toencourage children. Everyone gets a medal for existing.

I’m about to suggest she run along and wake up her mother when she wheels around. “Elsa—there’s no baked goods here! Just arrowroot biscuits.” Despite her accusatory tone, she grips the packet of biscuits in her chubby little hand.

“Forgive me,” I say dryly. “I didn’t realize I’d be entertaining royalty for breakfast.”

“That’s true,” she says, more conciliatory now. “Fine. I forgive you.” She tosses the apple core into thesink, and shoves the arrowroots deep into her pocket. “Right then… I better get to school. How about afternoon tea? I like banana bread.”

She doesn’t wait for a response, just takes off down the hallway. The hide! I imagine the faces of Mrs. Harris, or Mrs. Casey, who lived on my cul-de-sac when I was growing up, if I showed up uninvited and demanded banana bread. The child really does think she’s royalty!

And yet, I do have four bananas in the fruit bowl, all starting to turn.

I’m rummaging through the pantry for brown sugar when I realize I haven’t heard the screen door slam shut. What’s that little devil up to now?

I sigh—loudly, for my own benefit—and start the slow trudge down the hallway.

Persephone is standing in the doorway to my second bedroom, peering inside.

“Elsa,” she says cautiously, “why do you have—?”

“Get out of there. This instant.”

My voice comes out sharp—too sharp, louder than I meant. I can feel my heart hammering. That room. Of all rooms.

Persephone turns, startled, cheeks flushing. “But—”

“But nothing.” I hurry forward, faster than I have in days, and gently—but firmly—guide her out of the doorway. I shut the bedroom door behind me with a snap.

“You don’t go snooping through people’s homes like that,” I say, breath tight. “It’s incredibly rude.”

Persephone looks up at me, confused at first—then wounded. Her eyes fill. “I’m sorry.”