Violet skipped back from the mailbox. Mr. Scattergood, the postman, had let her feed Jewell a sugar cube. The horse’s lips had moved soft and velvety against Violet’s palm, a sensation that sent a jolt of such happiness through her that not even Divinity’s sudden appearance spoiled her mood.

“I’ll take those.” Divinity blocked Violet’s path.

The eldest triplet promptly handed over the packet of letters. She was still bruised from the nasty pinch Divinity had meted out for not passing the potatoes quickly enough. As she placed the last of the mail in Divinity’s outstretched hand, Violet exclaimed, “Why, there’s a letter for you!”

Mail for the Waywards was not an unknown occurrence, but it was rare. It seemed that most parents lost interest in communicating with their daughters once they’d been placed in Miss Maisie’s care. In their young lives, Violet and her sisters had had three missives from their family, precious letters that they reread on their shared birthday. As far back as Violet could remember, she could not recall Divinity ever receiving mail.

Divinity squinted at Violet as if to measure whether or not she was playing a prank. She glanced down at the envelope in her hands. “Why, so it is!” She slipped it into her pinafore pocket, then hurried to deliver the remainder of the post to Miss Maisie. For once, she did not stop to accept a sweet from her headmistress, nor commiserate with Miss Maisie as she wondered aloud where her invitation to lunch with Mrs. So-and-So had got to. “The mail service these days,” muttered Miss Maisie.

“Yes, it is nice, isn’t it?” answered Divinity, before running off to her favorite spot, the sunporch window seat, next to the potted cacti. She could tell by both the return address and the penmanship that this letter was not from either of her parents. Her mother tended to add a little swirl to the “y” at the close of Divinity’s name, and her father’s hand was nearly illegible. This script appeared to be taken from a penmanship practice book, it was that neat and tidy.

Divinity ran her forefinger under the flap of the envelope, prying it open. Inside was nestled a sheaf of rich letterhead, soft as butter, covered with that same neat and tidy script. She pulled it out, pressing it smooth before reading.

The letter was short but rich with revelations.

“My, my.” Divinity rested letter in lap with trembling hands. She never knew she had a great-uncle named Woebegone Thompson. Nor that he had a farm in Upstate New York. Near Elmira.

She reread the carefully penned words several more times, trying to take them in. Last Will and Testament. Woebegone’s Way. Forty acres. All hers. Free and clear.

Divinity sat very still, contemplating the alarming news. Another one of the Waywards might have rejoiced at the letter’s contents. Freedom at last! But not Divinity. Among her many flaws was one most glaring: a distinct lack of an imagination. She had no desire to do anything more than to run Miss Maisie’s School. Someday. For now, Divinity was content to play the tyrant of the Waywards.

She slipped the letter back into the envelope and then into her pocket, determined not to reveal its contents to a soul. She was confident Violet would never tell anyone about the letter, being so tender-skinned and all.

Though the other Waywards had complained on many occasions to Divinity about her habit of talking aloud in her sleep, she never paid them any attention. It didn’t keep her awake, so why should she be concerned? Thus Divinity had no idea that, a few nights later while Miss Maisie’s thirteen other wards soundly slept, she betrayed herself, revealing all through middle-of-the-night whispers and mumbles.

And Divinity also had no idea that one set of Wayward ears heard everything.