“Wake up, Amelia! Wake up, now!”

Amelia’s eyes shot open. The world swam around her, all topsy-turvy. She blinked, dizzy and disoriented. Confused. There, in the light. A face looming in the morning haze. Cold eyes the color of a rainy, winter morning, glaring and angry.

“Witch!” Amelia screamed, lashing out with her fist.

“Ow!” the witch cried as Amelia ducked beneath her covers, still wringing the cobwebs from her head. She shook the terrier sleeping next to her. “Tagalong, where are we? Are we awake or dreaming?”

“Come out this instant!” a shrill, nasally voice demanded.

Amelia sighed. She wasn’t dreaming. She was in her bedroom, under the covers. And there was no witch. Only Vermina.

I would have preferred a witch, Amelia thought as she poked her head out, dozy eyes still half-closed. Her aunt stood before her, looking cross and holding her nose.

“Sorry, Aunt Vermina,” Amelia said. “I was in the middle of another fantastic dream. I stole a magical pearl with healing powers from a terrible dragon—”

“Amelia...” Vermina interrupted.

“And I was racing down the mountainside on the back of a giant peacock when the dragon swooped and breathed his terrible fire—”

“Amelia...”

“And we were caught in the flames. I closed my eyes, sure we were done for, but when I opened them, we were surrounded by a magical cocoon of light, protecting us from the fire. I don’t know where it came from, but it was sobeautiful. And then—”

“Amelia!” Vermina yelled, yanking off the covers. “Out of bed, this instant!”

Amelia scrambled forth, standing at attention, eyes wide open.

“You and your dreams,” Vermina scoffed. “You spend your life in fantasy, leaving the rest of us to deal with the real world. If you sleep late again, you’ll be suitably punished.”

“It’s just that I enjoy dreaming so much,” Amelia muttered, absently twirling the tight ringlets of her hair, “and I’m very good at it. My mother always said—”

“Stop that,” Vermina said, slapping Amelia’s hand from her hair.

Her aunt crossed her arms, glowering. Vermina reminded Amelia of the skull and crossbones she had seen on bottles of poison in the backyard shed. Her arms were as bony, her constant scowl as unpleasant, and her demeanor as off-putting. The edges of the frilly, black dress she often wore had grown tattered and worn, just like the labels wrapping the glass containers. Like poison, Amelia avoided her aunt at all costs.

Tagalong poked his head from beneath the covers, growling.

“And control your mutt before I remove him from my house,” Vermina said.

“He’s not a mutt,” Amelia shot back. “And this isn’t yourhouse—”

Her hand flew to her mouth.

“What did you say?” Vermina snapped.

Amelia quieted, her eyes tracing circles on the floor.

Vermina held out a white apron. “You might be a swashbuckling heroine in your dreams, but you’re far from that in the real world. Here, you do as I say. Get dressed and put this on.”

Amelia took the apron, then moped to the bathroom and closed the door. She donned a white, knitted sweater with an embroidered red rose and a plaid, pleated skirt. Next, she ran a comb through her hair, pinning it back with a bobby pin. Lastly, she reluctantly picked up the handkerchief apron with the red hem and sighed. She knew what the garment portended.

“I hope you’re well-rested,” Vermina called through the door. “You have a full day of chores and less than a full day to complete them. It may be Saturday, but you won’t be seeing your friends, listening to radio programs, or doing anything fun. There’s too much work to do.”

Amelia stared at the apron.

“And I don’t want any complaining!” Vermina continued, pacing about. “When I was your age, I was begging for food. If you grew up without a home, you wouldn’t be grumbling about chores. You’d simply be grateful to have a house to do chores in.” Vermina’s steps stopped by the window. “Look at this. Stuffed animals, of all things. A dingy, pink panda bear with a missing eye and its stuffing falling out. It’s 1942. The world is at war, everything is falling apart, and my twelve-year-old niece is holding onto tacky stuffed animals...”

Amelia reluctantly slipped the apron on. She stood staring into the mirror, taking an extra moment to prepare herself. But the mirror offered little comfort. Amelia frowned at the girl staring back, suddenly feeling as ragtag as her stuffed panda. Her mother had always helped with her hair. Now, the black, curly strands fell in unkempt ringlets past her shoulders. She and her father once spent time out in the garden. Now, her skin had grown pale as she rarely saw the sun anymore. With her parents, she once stood straight and proud. Now, she stooped, and her shoulders sagged. Yes, she and her panda. Both were once loved too much, now lonely and falling apart at the seams. Amelia slowly opened the bathroom door and stepped out.

“Stand straight. Shoulders back,” Vermina barked. “Why do I bother? You never stand properly, you’re far too wiry, and look at this hair. Much too curly and unmanageable.” Vermina leaned over, straightening Amelia’s apron. “And heaven knows you spend far too much time dreaming, talking about dreams, thinking about dreams, even daydreaming about your dreams. The sooner you realize no one else cares about your silly fantasies, the better off you’ll be.”

I care, Amelia thought. They’re more fun than being here.

Indeed, Amelia loved dreaming. Every night, she embarked on a grand adventure, leaving her worldly troubles behind. She preferred clashing swords with sneering pirates, fighting giant sharks on the way to Atlantis, or fleeing angry Mayans through the Amazonian jungles to the real life, waking-word problems she could never do anything about. And while she was often helped by a last-minute miracle that seemingly came out of nowhere, she always managed to save the day in her dreams. There, she was bold, strong, and brave. There, she never let anyone down.

The real world, however, was another story.

“Now, get to work,” Vermina said. “We’re having company today. A very important person. I expect this house to look presentable.”

Vermina turned, taking her leave. She was about to close the door when Amelia blurted, “I was hoping to see Papa today!”

Vermina froze. “You know how sick he is.”

“But I—”

Vermina whirled about. “My brother needs his rest, not his bratty daughter pestering him. Out of the question!”

Amelia blinked back tears. She didn’t want to give Vermina the satisfaction of seeing her cry, but she hadn’t seen her father in almost two weeks. Ever since her mother died, her father was all she had left. She missed their time picking tiger lilies in the garden, making spaghetti dinners, and chasing fireflies at dusk. Yet after Vermina had slinked through the front door almost three months ago, promising to help until Amelia’s father could get back on his feet, Amelia had seen less and less of him. Her aunt filled Amelia’s days with chores, errands, and meaningless tasks, almost as if trying to keep them apart. And whenever Amelia complained, Vermina bristled with a ferocity that had begun to frighten her.

As the bedroom door drew closed, Amelia’s face flushed. Her teeth gnashed. Her anger rose, from simmering to steaming to boiling. She grew angrier and angrier, until…

Amelia dared to stick out her tongue.

The door flew open. Vermina thrust her head back into the room. “What was that?”

Amelia looked away, ashamed. She would fearlessly fight dragons in her dreams but couldn’t muster the courage to stand up to her aunt.

“Watch yourself, young lady. You won’t find the punishment for your next offense to be very pleasant,” Vermina warned before slamming the door closed.

* * *

The doorbell rang.

After hours of vacuuming, mopping, and more, Amelia shuffled down the grand staircase and slowly opened the door, wondering if this was the important visitor Vermina was expecting. “Hello. Welcome to—”

She stopped. A stout, imposing giant of a man filled the entry, wearing a spotless, black suit and carrying a leather briefcase. He glared down with charcoal eyes and eyebrows too bushy for his face. “You,” he said in a low, gravelly voice, “must be Amelia.”

Amelia stepped back as the hairs on her neck stood up. Tagalong cowered behind her legs. “Who…who are you?”

“I’m here to see your aunt,” the visitor said, stepping through the doorway even though Amelia hadn’t yet invited him in.

“Vermiiina!” Amelia called, her voice cracking.

They stood in awkward silence, staring at each other.

“Your father is Edmond Browning? The actor?” the stranger finally said, checking his watch.

“Yes,” Amelia gulped.

“I saw him, once. A production of Hamlet, I believe. I hear he isn’t well.”

Amelia bristled at the man’s words. Her father was a renowned stage actor and something of a local celebrity. He had pulled out of his most recent production after falling unexpectedly ill and had been bedridden ever since. “Don’t worry. He’ll be back on stage in no time,” she snapped.

The stranger looked down, raising an eyebrow.

“Run along, Amelia,” Vermina barked as she entered the foyer. “I have business to discuss, and it doesn’t concern you.” She ushered her guest into the parlor.

“Does Papa know we have visitors?”

“I said, run along,” she hissed, slamming the parlor doors.

Amelia’s eyes narrowed. “What’s going on, Tagalong? Mom’s gone, Dad’s sick, Vermina shows up bossing everyone around, and now I don’t even know who’s coming and going from my own home. It’s like I don’t even belong here anymore!”

Indeed, Amelia had been born in the grand Victorian. She had moved down its hallways each and every day of her life. And with each passing day, she and her family imprinted their history upon the house. Each laugh that barreled down the corridors, each painful tear that hit the floor, each morning hug and nighttime kiss left their mark, slowly turning the house into a home. Memories now followed Amelia as she made her way through the halls. She could see her mother through the backdoor window, sitting alone on the porch, enjoying a purple and peach sunset. She could see her father pacing about his office, smoking his churchwarden pipe, memorizing lines for his next big part. The aroma of the cherry wood blend still hung in the air. And the dining room, where Amelia would regale them with tales of all her nighttime adventures and her parents would listen intently, hanging on every word. Now, those memories were all that was left, fading a bit more each day. The old place seemed much more of a house and less a home these days.

Amelia clenched her fist. “Vermina may act like she owns this house, but she doesn’t know all of its secrets. Come on.”

Moments later, Amelia knelt on the floor of the music room, her ear pressed against the heating vent. The voices from the parlor carried down the ductwork, echoing right into the space.

“All of it. In my name. The house. The car. The money. My brother owes me that much after his betrayal,” Vermina was saying. “Can you make that happen?”

“I’m the best lawyer in town,” the stranger replied.

“Excellent,” Vermina said. “They’ll have forgotten my name at the club if I’m gone much longer. I’m used to elegant gowns and expensive jewelry and a staff preparing grand meals with fine wines. Look at me now. Drinking second rate champagne and cooking for myself. I can’t take it much longer!”

“There are worse things,” the lawyer replied.

Amelia could feel Vermina’s sneer through the vent.

“You can lecture me about ‘worse things’ when you’ve begged for table scraps and slept in the rain. I may have grown up poor, but I won’t end up that way again. I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure that never happens,” Vermina growled. “Whatever it takes.”

Amelia knew Vermina and her father had had a rough childhood. Their parents died at an early age. Their father from a factory accident, their mother from illness. They ended up in an orphanage together. It was a horrific place from which they later ran away, preferring to live on the streets. Her father rarely spoke of that time, but Amelia’s mother told her all he and his sister had to do to survive, from begging to stealing and more. Her father had since gained both fame and fortune as an actor, and Vermina’s husband had been quite wealthy. They had both risen above their poverty. Or so Amelia thought...

“There is, of course,” the lawyer said, “the matter of payment. There’s nothing left of your husband’s estate. Can you afford my services?”

“Yes. Once my brother’s house and all his belongings are in my possession.”

“If he does succumb to his illness, the will stipulates everything goes to the girl.”

“No matter. I’ve already made...arrangements.”

Amelia pulled away, her finger twirling locks of hair, angry. “I don’t like this, Tagalong. Papa asked Vermina to help while he’s sick, but she’s doing everything she can to keep us apart and meeting with strange people about Papa’s money. What’s she up to?”

Amelia moved to the shiny, black Bechstein grand piano across the room. She leaned on the keys, head resting in one hand, absently playing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonatawith the other. “I wish Papa were here. He’d never let Vermina get away with this!”

Amelia slammed her fist on the keys. She hated Vermina. Hated her chores. Hated her rules. Hated how she kept Amelia from seeing her father. The only fun Amelia ever found since her aunt arrived was behind her closed eyes, slipping away into bright, vivid dreams, where she was free from overbearing aunts and their schemes.

Beside her, Tagalong leapt to his feet, his tail wagging wildly.

“What is it?” Amelia asked.

Then, she heard it, too. The floorboards above creaking and moaning. Someone was stirring upstairs. And if Vermina was down the hall…

Her eyes brightened.

Amelia flew to the door, stepped into the hallway. Tagalong tailed behind as she slipped down the corridor and into the foyer, heading for the one room she was forbidden to enter.