CHAPTER 2Fredericka woke herself with a loud sneeze and turned over to look at the clock on the table by her bed.
Eight. Later than usual—much. But there had been the thunderstorm in the middle of the night and she had lain awake for a long time afterwards. She opened her eyes wide and stared at the unfamiliar yellow room.
She sneezed again, sat up, and was sure that she had started a cold. Her eyes ached and her throat felt like sandpaper.
As she dressed slowly, stopping at intervals to reach for a paper handkerchief, she was aware of a curious apprehension that had nothing to do with her cold and nothing to do with being alone in a strange house. Suddenly she sneezed again.
“Sneeze on Sunday, sneeze for—” What was the old rhyme? She finished dressing hurriedly and then looked out the
