Margaret and the Moth Tree by Brit Trogen, Kari Trogen

orphans in neat rows in the front hall, placing all of her most charming Pets in the very front. That way, they were the first ones the visitors saw when they stepped into the room.
    She would coach the Pets on how to smile in the most adorable way and to give proper bows and curtseys. Then, at the back of the room, she would arrange the dregs.
    â€œThey’d have to be dotty to look at any of you,” Switch would say with a glare. “But if they do, don’t even think about saying something stupid. I can promise that you’ll regret it later.”
    On this particular day, as the orphans stood in their rows wearing their red and blue coveralls, Margaret was tucked away in the very farthest corner of the room behind lanky Phoebe Frizzleton, whose poufy hair was blocking Margaret’s face.
    As the sound of a car engine came drifting through the window, Miss Switch appeared in a plain brown dress and a frilly white apron and made one final inspection of the Pets in the front row. Peering around Phoebe’s shoulder, Margaret could see the curly-haired boy called Christopher Thrashley standing front and center, with Lacey at his side.
    Switch disappeared from the room, and a few moments later she returned with a sweet-looking woman in a polka-dot dress and a man with a neat mustache.
    â€œThese are the orphans,” Miss Switch said with a sweep of her arm, as she led the couple before the waiting children.
    â€œOh!” cried the woman, whose eyes immediately fell on Christopher Thrashley.
    â€œIndeed,” said the man, who looked as though he thought this fact was rather obvious.
    â€œPlease take your time,” said Miss Switch. “And feel free to ask me any questions. I have the personal histories of each child available should you wish to read them.”
    The couple walked slowly along the first row of children before the sweet-faced woman came to a stop in front of Christopher.
    â€œHello, dear,” she said. “What’s your name?”
    â€œI’m Christopher,” he said, with a charming little bow. “It’s very lovely to meet you!”
    The woman beamed with delight and cast a quick glance at her husband, who nodded approvingly.
    Beneath their smiles, the other orphans breathed a sigh of disappointment.
    But just at that moment, an unexpected thing happened. Phoebe Frizzleton’s poufy hair, which had been hanging down in front of Margaret’s face, tickled her nose in precisely the wrong way, and Margaret gave a very loud, very high-pitched sneeze.
    Every face in the room, including those of the man and woman, turned to look at Margaret, who clapped both of her hands over her mouth.
    â€œBless you, child!” said the woman, sweetly. “Martin, your hankie.”
    The man pulled a white handkerchief from his jacket pocket and edged between the rows of children to offer it to Margaret. “Here you are, little girl.”
    With a small curtsy, Margaret took it.
    â€œAnd what might your name be?” asked the man.
    Margaret opened her mouth to answer, but just at that moment, she caught a glimpse of Miss Switch. The Matron was standing behind the man and the woman, just out of sight so that neither of them could see her. And her face was wearing an expression so frightening that Margaret didn’t dare utter a single sound.
    She froze, looking up at the friendly man with her mouth half open, then pressed her lips tightly together and dropped her eyes to the floor.
    â€œThat child,” Miss Switch said in a mock whisper, the sweetness in her face restored, “has a history of loopiness, I’m afraid. Runs in the family. It’s best not to upset her.”
    â€œOh!” said the man, staring at Margaret in shock and backing away quickly.
    â€œWell, what about this one, Miss Switch?” asked the woman, pointing back to Christopher Thrashley.
    Miss Switch smiled. “Christopher is one of our most popular and