Minerva picked up the fading sepia photograph in its brown leather frame, running her fingertips over the cold glass that separated her from the image of the father she’d never known. He looked very rakish and handsome in the uniform of the British Expeditionary Forces, rather like Douglas Fairbanks, who she’d seen in the pictures at the cinema. It was very easy for Minerva to see how her mother could have fallen in love with him. What wasn’t so simple was imagining how he could have loved the sour-faced, bitter woman who never ceased being angry at the world for not being what she wanted. It was all but impossible to connect the harpy to the slender, smiling girl in their wedding photographs, although Minerva would have conceded a slight resemblance, if pressed.

“The iron’s hot, Minerva. Bring in the sheets and get to it,” Mrs. Flynn called from the scullery.

“They’re still damp,” she replied. “I just checked them not too long ago.”

“They’ll be even more wet after it starts to rain. Unless you want to stay out of school again tomorrow and do them then.”

Minerva set down the photograph and scrambled to her feet. I’m never going to finish school if I have to miss Mondays every week to help with the laundry, she thought. She was able to get top marks even without being there every day, and Miss Campbell was always patient with her pupils’ absences, knowing that many of them were fortunate to be in school at all. Her kindness helped, but Minerva knew she could have been so much better, if only she didn’t have to worry about things like laundry, or making sure the steps were scrubbed and the front doorknob polished. The neighbours wouldn’t think the widow Stewart’s standards were lagging, even though she was out of work. It was a matter of pride.

She straightened her skirt and looked longingly at the book sitting on the side table. She’d so wanted to be able to finish another chapter before tea. You could have done, she reminded herself, if you hadn’t gotten distracted. Finding out whether Catherine Linton’s life turned out any more happily than her mother’s would have to wait. Miss Campbell lent her Wuthering Heights after Minerva devoured Jane Eyre and the entire oeuvre of Jane Austin. Lending her books was a sign of the teacher’s particular approval, and she clung to it, pinning all her hopes on the future Miss Campbell represented. Someday, she told herself, I’ll be a teacher like she is, and I’ll have my own flat. I won’t have to worry, or live in a ratty old tenement.

The thought sustained her until she opened the door to the yard, and the cold wind hit her bare legs. The thin cotton dress she wore wasn’t even warm enough for summer, not when you lived in a place where even the sun wasn’t bold enough to go. She reached up and pulled the damp linen from the line, almost looking forward to the oppressive heat by the stove. Almost. The warmth didn’t make up for the bone-aching weariness she knew she’d feel as the afternoon wore on. Minerva knew she’d be so tired she wouldn’t care that they had only bread and dripping for tea, so that was a blessing.

As she tried to get down the last set of sheets that had been turned sides-to-middle at least twice already, she was stopped by the bird that firmly sank its claws into them. “Shoo!” Minerva said, yanking on the cloth, more than a little surprised when it didn’t immediately spread its wings and fly away. She was even more surprised to see that it was an owl. An occasional pigeon strayed from the park, though more often than not its roaming instincts led it to wind up in someone’s pot for supper.

“Won’t you please just go away?” she asked, tugging at the sheet again. With a preternatural intelligence, it moved away just enough for Minerva to clear the line, but remained there, looking at her.

The letter dropped into her work-roughened hands, and Minerva marvelled at the rich feel of the parchment, so luxurious it almost seemed sinful in such a setting. It was addressed to her; there was no mistake about that. “Minerva Stewart, second floor bedroom, McAllister’s Rents, Edinburgh, Scotland” the address read in a flowing hand, written in the most startling purple ink she’d ever seen. She carried the sheets inside, dumped them in an untidy pile on the table and sat down, staring at the letter, turning it over in her hands again and again.

The seal, with its heraldic beasts and Latin motto was almost too beautiful to touch, but she ran her fingernail carefully around the bottom of it, so that it wouldn’t tear or break.

“Dear Miss Stewart,” it began, “You have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”