SWINDON, APRIL 2nd, 1872
I am awakened by someone shaking my shoulder violently. I jump up in panic, ready to defend myself, when I realize who is standing in front of me. I gulp nervously. My aunt’s face is illuminated by the faint light, coming from the paraffin lamp she is holding. Her gray eyes are staring at me coldly, sending shivers down my spine. Is she here to punish me? In the middle of the night.
“You’re awake. Good,” she suddenly says, her expression shifting as if she just became a different person. I blink furiously, trying to get my eyes adjusted to the light. But in the next moment, my aunt already pulls the lamp away from my face and walks towards my cupboard. “Get up. It is time for you to get dressed,” she then continues, speaking as if it were completely normal to wak
