First Chapters: 2025 Shortlist - The Caledonia Novel Award (2025)

Later that day, Magnella watches her husband drift out into the garden on a disused door; their cat - Knell - sits in the apple tree, yowling at the grey clouds. Chocolates have arrived from the kitchen, and she plugs these into her mouth. The ceiling dribbles water onto her bed, her desk, the floorboards. This house is designed to store water, she thinks, always dripping, always smelling of mildew and damp, every floorboard turning to paper, every strip of wallpaper bulging. There’s a fire going. Magnella can only poke and prod so much before she accepts she will simply have to be cold.

She turns fifty today. Her teeth hurt (they want removing); every joint seems swollen or stiff (they want removing also). There is a mirror, a few halls away, which she has avoided for three months. In the spring, she will go up a dress size; nothing to be done about that, of course, but she worries about the cost. They tell you, over and over, it’s not so bad, that there’s nothing to worry about, but then you arrive and somehow it’s worse.

But Magnella cannot truly see herself. The lustre of her auburn hair, her broad beautiful shoulders, the scatterings of freckles upon her face, her eyes. She retains much of the benefit from her youth. It simply does not feel that way.

Another chocolate. Her husband has reached the foot of the tree; he is attempting now to stand upon the door and beckon the cat down into his arms. Knell, perhaps seeing the instability of such a platform, refuses to move from his perch.

She will go to Cartane today, as it is her fiftieth, and buy a grave plot. She reaches for a chocolate, but the box is empty. She wears a dress of tangerine loosening at the seams, the midriff having taken considerable torture this past year. Her fingers are jammed into rings, some of which, she believes, will need to be cut from her.

Two summers ago, after several seasons of flooding, Guilio, the man of the house, the man, currently, upon the door, had the idea of drying the rugs and cushions upon the roof. That morning, he clambered up via the trellis and draped the fabric across the tiles. As the day went on, he brought Magnella reports of their progress. Touch this, he said, proffering a cushion cover. Oh yes, she said, very dry.

In the night, thieves stole off with the rugs; they left a cushion cover, filled with shit, as a token of gratitude. She remembers the look on Guilio’s face when he opened it, as if someone had slaughtered a lamb before him.

They deserved them, Magnella thought; after all, they’d climbed all that way.

*

The box of chocolates she began in the bedroom is soon emptied; she finds another in the kitchen and takes this with her to the gondola. She cannot help herself. Even though this chocolate is too rich and tangy, she keeps eating. It is too expensive as well, far more than she can afford. The boxes arrive each morning from the west - half the fee is transportation - and though she feels like nobility when she opens them, an hour later, when she has a stack of boxes and has sampled maybe five or six new flavours, she tallies the cost, and finds, always, that it is too much.

Eventually, Tessa, her servant, arrives at the gondola. She eyes the chocolates greedily when she steps aboard. On other days, Magnella may have offered them. But today she is in a foul mood.For some reason, Tessa has spent the morning moving flowers about the house.

‘I wish you would spend more time on the things that mattered,’ Magnella said, as she watched Tessa ferry a vase from one room to another. Once her task was complete, Tessa gave a nod, as if the continent of Fiosa could now continue its business unabated.

Tessa has been in Magnella’s employ for twenty years now, and is kept because she is cheap. When Magnella brings this up with Guilio, he says you won’t find anyone cheaper and so they persist. A little like renting an ache.

When she moved in, it appeared everything she possessed was some shade of grey. Upon receiving her first paycheque, she bought a gold hairpin in the shape of a butterfly; a week later, she lost this in the canal and decided frivolity was a sort of curse. Once a month, she exits the house for an hour and comes back with her hair shorter. At another point in the month, she takes an evening off and comes back drunk. Often, when there is little else to do, she knits.

She steals too. Cutlery, strips of cloth and loose coins, once or twice a pair of hosen. She secretes these objects about her person or within a side cabinet for later collection. Magnella wonders what she does with such objects. They certainly cannot be sold. No money in that. But then, one evening, she visited Tessa’s small sideroom unexpectedly and found a pair of candlesticks which had gone missing two days before. They bore no candles, and were placed, oddly, in the corner of the room, so Magnella assumed she must just look at them. Maybe, in certain moods, she runs her fingers over them.

The gondolier tilts his head. ‘Cartane,’ Magnella says and they push off.

*

Dax is waking. In the side canals which lead to the lagoon, maids throw open shutters, dark eyed gondoliers work steadily to ready their boats for transport, and birds, fresh and fast, arrive in aviaries bearing the day’s news. They pass under bridges, where citizens, weighed down by baggage, are transporting goods to market. The Senate is not yet in session, but when the bells toll in the late morning, the waterways will be full. Of course, the grey clouds persist overhead, but there are glimmers of sunlight. With a certain sly hope native to Dax, washing is hauled out over the water, its owners eying the sky warily.

Eventually, they enter the bay, their gondolier switching to an extended punt.

A picture: The skyline of Dax slumbering like a shelf of ill-arranged books, the egg of its cathedral denting the sky, to the west, the tower of Vosco Dugo shining in the early morning sunlight, Magnella reclining on corduroy cushions, each a tight square of dark green, sipping milk laced with cinnamon. Her cap, a plum velvet, rests beside her, looking deflated. Tessa knits with needles of Illurwood - a gift, apparently, from her son. She delights, mewing, in turning a ball of dull, grey yarn into a scarf of dull, grey yarn. Before the gondola, on an island of black silt, the tower of Cartane tilts towards the sky. Crenellations dot the stone work. Balconies protrude. Statues rise. It has been a year since the collapse and a forest of scaffolding huddles about the base of the tower. Around the scaffolding, the gravestones of the recent dead mark the island.

Cartane continues its ascent, of course. The very rich are buried at the top. If there is no space, they purchase it, pushing the tower ever upwards. Those who are merely wealthy must make do with the soil.

And the poor? Well, the poor are simply tossed into the bay.

*

The trip inside Cartane goes poorly. She buys a plot from the robed acolyte, with his ledger and his wall of sand timers. She remains stooped beneath the low ceiling; the rainfall from the previous night is filtering down through the black stone of the tower; all she can hear, while the acolyte adds her name to the vast ledger of cartane, is water trickling down culverts, dripping from man-made stalagmites, pooling in naves. He turns the ledger, slowly, to her, places the stylus in her hand, and indicates, with a gnarled finger where she must sign.

She signs: Domina Finellii, Magnella. Pays the fee, pays the tax. And, finally, visits the plot itself.

The water laps at the gravestones, some six feet below; worms heave in the muck. It nestles between a carpenter of little renown and a woman, eighty, who died in a fire - her inscription fashioned with a knife. During high tide, Magnella thinks, the water must drown both of these plots. The fish will chew my eyes out. My bones will be washed away.

Later, much later, her husband tries to console her. His grave plot was bought some years ago, an ample space, roughly five feet long, within the basement of Cartane’s. He stands at 5’5, but insists upon the word ample. He anticipates an operation to remove those extra 5 inches so that he can fit. But then, his ancestors are buried in the soil; he stands far above them: proof that progress is no more, often, than a mirage of perspective.

Magnella’s ancestors, meanwhile, are buried near the tower’s peak, among the saints and heroes.

*

They return along the Via Daxius, the largest canal in the city. Fat galleons are arriving from across the continent. Cranes, laden with goods, swing overhead. Sailors leer from the gunwales.

From the Cartane side, you can see along the length of the canal and even beyond, past the workshops of the Cutrii and the academy of the gondoliers, to the towering wall of mists known as the Jorgamund.

Travel for a number of days, with an appropriate guide and a certain amount of luck, you can cross the ever shifting sea concealed within the mists and arrive in Chaule. Without a guide, however, boats enter and do not come out. Travellers circle endlessly back on themselves. Men of sane mind go mad. Most simply starve. There are wrecks, dotted between the rocks, their masts crossing the sky, their hulls cracked open, with markings from centuries before and visages of forgotten gods upon their prows.

Those guides mentioned above are born, not made. Chaulian boys and girls who arrive in the world at high tide can place an ear to the bilge and know which way the waves are moving. By tasting the water, a finger wicked along the surface, they know whether progress can be made. By staring into the night sky, they can find spots to anchor. They spend their lives enshrouded by the mists, guiding trade and visitors between Chaule and Dax.

Magnella stands as they head along the canal. She does not know quite why. Reverence, perhaps, now that she is fifty. Maybe Sentiment, towards the mists which have loomed over her since birth. But then she grows bored and sits herself down again.

Tessa doesn’t stand. Tessa is absorbed in her needles and besides, she has seen it before.

*

Magnella has two memories from the birth of Lorella. The first, when she looked down and thought: what a mess. The second, when, no matter which way she turned the baby, she could not find a scrotum.

‘Did you remove the penis by accident?’ she asked the nurse.

‘Why no, my lady, it’s a girl.’

Ah, thought Magnella, another one.

Months later, while Giulio bumbled about his study and she tried her best to embroider a flower upon a cap, she asked what he thought about his legacy.

‘Which one is that?’ he asked, confused.

Her middle name - Rutacarii - derives from her father’s side. Her daughters bear it too, tucked between their first and last names. Perhaps when they have sons, their sons will trace the name back, through history, to Armando Rutacarii, Dax’s founder, her great-grandfather. And perhaps, realising that they possess the name of a great and noble house, they will take it on as their own. Or perhaps they will not, and her name will fade, diluted by marriage and time, until it is nothing more than a footnote in the ledger of Cartane.

To have sons though, and realise this unlikely dream, her daughters must have marriages and to have marriages, they must have suitors.

Daily, Magnella ascends to the small aviary housed in the Finellii attic and sends letters northwards, requesting names from her distant cousins. Names of young men from rich families, who own estates and possess titles, and need, she hopes, a route into the markets of Dax. Her cousins write back, of course, in Corsan or crude Daxian, with potential suitors.

All too often, they are swayed by little more than a title. Look a little closer though and you find men shackled with debt, possessing awful prospects or, worse, simply uninterested. Occasionally, and it is very occasionally, the names come good and Magnella writes to them, requesting an audience.

If she were smarter about it, she would make a copy; instead, she writes the letter anew every time, trotting out the same phrases: ‘I request an audience with your son…to whom, I would hope, all being well, to offer my daughter…of handsome disposition and polite character… I cannot, of course, offer a sizable dowry…in Dax, where they will be situated once married…there are opportunities, vast and financially convincing, if we were to go into business here…yours faithfully, Magnella, Domina Finellii.’

*

The suitor arriving today belongs to House Baldovinettii. They, House Baldovinettii, model themselves as luxury tailors, but seem only to make gloves. These have arrived, by the bucket load, these past few months, enough for Magnella to go into business as a glove saleswoman herself if she so wished.

When the father and his son step from the gondola, they look about at the city as if it were made of gold. Belvado, the father, wears too many rings, has not cut his beard in the right fashion, and carries the weight of middle age about his waist. The son, meanwhile, is almost lost within a broad shouldered doublet; his hosen reveal all too bony knees. No matter where he stands, he is doomed to be always slightly behind his father. Hard not too, Magnella thinks, can’t exactly stand alongside him. She dips a curtsey.

Both look tired from the long trip South.

‘Magnella Finelli,’ the father says and places a kiss upon her hand; his lips are needlessly moist. The son bows to her.

‘Belvado, Rico, please,’ she says, ‘come inside.’

To hide the flooding and the empty, mildewing rooms, she has closed doors and drawn curtains. The night before, the nicest furniture was moved into the room with the balcony (black gash-like streaks mark the stairwell). If she did not fear the fine, she would have her gondolier blocking off the canals and directing traffic beneath the window. She is selling them location, after all, and prospect.

They do not know she is poor by Daxian standards. They do not know she needs the marriage allowance to make repairs to her house.

She seats them in high backed chairs. Cakes arrive, borne by servants, and tea, a novelty which charms the northmen.

‘As we approached the city,’ says Belvado, ‘a bet sprung up between us.’

He pauses; he is one of those men who needs prompting.

‘Oh yes,’ she says. ‘What on?’

‘Well you see, I have been told that Dax is akin to a huge ship which floats upon this body of water here. In books, they say that the city is anchored to the…(he clicks thrice)...to the lake’s floor (a nod to confirm this is what he meant) via a system of chains and pulleys. But, you see, my son disagrees with this thesis, despite it coming from books, you see, he believes it is perched upon a set of islands. I said that there was no way that could possibly be true.’

Magnella looks back at the boy; he is glaring at his father, his cheeks a little red. She wishes he would speak, at least once, to prove he is not a mute.

‘So we were wondering,’ says Belvado, ‘which, exactly, is it?’

Magnella looks between them. ‘I’m afraid I do not know,’ she says and sips her tea. ‘Unfortunately, the education of a lady does not include such concepts. Perhaps, though, you should ask our gondolier. He will know.’

It is custom, on the first meeting, for the daughter to look upon the suitor through a peephole and make a decision on his worth. But the room intended for meeting suitors has several leaks and Magnella did not wish to drill more holes in a house which seems, already, to be riddled with them.

As such, Lorella will simply enter when she is ready. All the same, the boy searches the walls, hoping to see light glint off a pupil, hoping to find himself worthy.

When Lorella finally enters, both men stand. She is not wearing the dress Magnella requested, the dark blue of House Baldovinettii, instead she wears a dress of pale red, a dress which used to belong to her sister. Her hair is down; a set of crystal (mock crystal) pins hold it in place. She allows Rico to kiss her hand and sits.

‘Thank you for sending us so many gloves,’ she says.

She smiles, investing it with stupidity and malice, enough to make Magnella a little furious.

‘Lorella is so enamoured by your gloves she has even been wearing them around the house,’ she says.

‘My mother clearly seeks to embarass me. But it is true, I cannot get enough of them. They are oh so very (her mask almost cracks, she covers her mouth with a fey hand) firm. I do wonder though, who made them?’ Lorella asks.

Rico clears his throat. ‘It was I, my lady.’

He bows his head to her. Belvado smiles at his son. ‘He is nervous, that’s why he is putting on airs.’

‘Oh,’ says Lorella, ‘I did not notice, that is how we speak in the city.’

‘You know, before we arrived today, he told me he had written down compliments.’

Momentarily, Lorella’s smile becomes the one she would use for tricks upon her sister.

‘Why I would love to hear them,’ she says.

With quivering hands, the boy produces a sheaf of papers from his doublet. The letters, written in blue ink, are unevenly spaced and many needlessly capitalised. I hope his correspondence looks cleaner, Magnella thinks.

He decides to stand, as if this were the only way to give compliments to a lady. When he speaks, his voice is reedy and stumbles upon the words.

‘Lorella, now that I am here before you, it betakes me that the waters of the Daxian bay are but dull when compared to the visage you have invested upon your face. Pray give me a moment to…’

*

Magnella and Lorella watch their gondola push on towards the Via Daxius.

Nico waves unsteadily from the stern. He seems the type of boy to never find his canal legs, his life spent gripping the gunwale. They turn a corner; Belvado leans awkwardly forward and pats his son on the back. His bulk rocks the gondola. There is a certain charity in his smile.

When they are out of earshot, Lorella turns to her and says: ‘You cannot make me marry him, surely?’

‘These doltish boys grow into good husbands,’ says Magnella, a little wistful. Giulio is no idiot, but he certainly tries his hand at it, now and then.

‘He is ever so doltish though, isn’t he? I worry he won’t be able to grow out of it. That I will come across him nailing his boots to the floor.’

‘So you have set your heart on a man of intellect then?’

‘Not exactly. Someone who won’t struggle with doorknobs, perhaps. I don’t want to be cutting my husband’s food into edible chunks.’

‘You may enjoy it. It’s easy to be the smart one.’

‘Surely not, surely it’s easier to be the dumb one.’

Magnella shrugs.

‘Are they rich?’ Lorella asks.

She looks at her daughter. She’s auburn, like her; pale-skinned, lightly freckled; most would believe it a most beautiful pallor. By all accounts, she is in her prime.

‘Not rich enough, I don’t think,’ Magnella says. ‘Perhaps with another son with something about him, House Baldovinettii could grow.’

‘And someone else to make the gloves.’

‘Yes, well, that too. But no reason to keep that familial. I’m sure there are plenty of people who can make gloves.’

‘Will I have to see him again?’

‘No, I think not, but be a good girl and string him along a little. We can fashion all those gloves into a saddle.’

‘I’ll tell him that his compliments insulted me. That usually works.’

‘How cruel. He clearly worked very hard on those.’

Lorella turns to go, but Magnella stops her with a touch upon the arm.

‘Lorella,’ she says, ‘when I find you a man rich enough, you will marry him, won’t you? There is more at stake here than simply love.’

Lorella nods her head; the curls she has made bounce prettily.

‘Yes, mother. After all, what would be the point in all this otherwise?’

No windows overlook this dead-end pocket of space, no cameras either. This is the most alone and unobserved Anna has been since she started work this morning. She tilts her body back against bricks still warm with the heat of the day and almost begins to relax.

Flashes of her shift keep darting into view, silvery minnow flickers through the gloom. A man in his twenties snapping pictures of empty shelves with his phone. In the staffroom, the whiteboard tally of shifts not covered, the lorry-loads that would not be arriving. Out in the main shop, tills closed, irate queues. A woman wearing too much eyeliner and holding the hand of a toddler who – Anna squashes that one.

Later.

But while her conscious mind pays it no attention, Anna’s eyes remain in perfect working order and she was raised to be observant. If there’d been a test on the entrance in front of her, she’d have managed a credible pass. A double door, three panels on either side, freshly painted gleaming black, smart, brass door furniture to one side. She’d have dropped marks by drawing a blank on the shape of the knocker but might have picked up extra by noting that the handle – also brass, a gently faceted sphere rising to a soft point – looks used in a way that the door does not, as if countless hands have braced themselves on the metal before pushing the door open.

There’s also the awkward fact that this place reeks of money and she – linen trousers, still rumpled from the train, orange converse, faded black t-shirt – will stand out for all the wrong reasons.

Internally, she shrugs. A glimpse of the woman from this afternoon, her features taut with anger. Very deliberately, Anna scrunches up the memory and bins it. But behind it, inescapable, is what happened this morning, before her shift at the supermarket.

Papa had been waiting for her. That was unusual. He worked hard to give the impression that each time she visited the hospice was unexpected, as if she were terribly busy and had merely happened to drop in, rather than rearranging every detail of her day to spend as much time as possible with him.

Maybe he imagines it makes things easier.

The pale morning light fell on the bedsheets in a dappled wash and Anna was abruptly, fiercely glad for this touch of the outside, this reminder of day and night and sun and moon amid the drip in his arm and the soft electronic beeps from machines. She’d asked him how he slept as she refilled his water jug and took a surreptitious picture of his charts to forward to her cousin Jamie. And she braced herself for the normal dance of him acting as if she were fussing while being too weak to hold his head up unsupported.

But this morning was different; this morning he went off script.

“Anna. Come, sit down.”

She halted.

“I have a thing I need to ask you.”

This was not how things went. Her father asked favours from no one – and indeed, as Anna obediently sat, he didn’t appear to know how to follow up.

“Papa–”

“There is a box,” he said – maybe the interruption helped, gave him something to work against. “In my wardrobe, at the top. I think it was shoes. I don’t remember what shoes.”

“A shoebox in your wardrobe. I can find that.”

“Inside, there are…” his lips quirked, “… old things.”

Anna stilled everything, even her own breath.

“There will be a card, like a playing card.” He moved one hand in a vague, circular motion. “A London address, some writing on the back.”

“That’s fine, Papa; I’ll bring it after work.”

His eyes turned away even as his hand sought hers, and he’s not a tactile man.

“It’s for a bar. Easy to find, always easy to find when you have the card.” He paused, eyes opaque. “You can go today.”

“Wait, London?”

“Promise me, Anna.” His hand tightened on hers and she returned the grip. It had the sense of an answer given, a bargain sealed, though that was the last thing she intended.

“Papa, I’m not– I’ll find your shoebox but the only place I’m going is straight back here.”

He’d said nothing, let her cycle through all the reasons this was a terrible idea before saying again: “Promise me.”

And so she had. What else can you say to a dying man?

Anna leaves the sun-warmed bricks with regret, trying to ignore the restless chitter in her head. This is all wrong. She shouldn’t be here, she needs to be back with Papa. But she made a promise, so the only thing is to get through this as fast as possible and back to the hospice. She reaches for the door handle and pushes.

Inside is a corridor with whitewashed walls and wooden panelling polished so dark it looks black. What there is not is a reception, any indication of where to go or even another living person; nothing except the sensation of eyes watching.

“Hello?”

Whispers on the edge of hearing; either further away or very quiet and very close. The corridor turns sharply; a couple of uneven steps and there’s another door.The idea of noise, of people talking and life being lived, is getting louder as she pushes it open.

This is the place. Pools of golden light artfully spaced; walls the colour of truffles and low-slung couches in rich shades of ruby, topaz and tourmaline. The soft murmur of conversation, the musical chink of ice against glass and the blessed sensation of cool, a relief from the humid heat outside.

And at one end of the room where it commands all attention and justifies whatever it is they charge for drinks here, is a glass bar, an undulating sea swell that both reflects light back and troubles the eye with hidden depths.

A few people turn towards Anna – under-dressed for this chi-chi set up – but swiftly lose interest. The tone is languid but there’s a charged current beneath the soft décor.

For one long moment, Anna considers bolting.

Something is off, something is weird. She’s walked into enough bars in enough different countries to tell that something here is not right.

But it’s not her choice to make. She gave her word and against her will and now she’s here. Throw some names around, draw a blank, be back at the hospice within an hour, maybe two. The image that keeps pushing to the forefront of her mind is of herself as a leaf, helpless in rapids, dashed and smashed by forces bigger than her by so many orders of magnitude no one could overcome them. Or maybe a pinball in a machine, pinged and whizzed thither and yon. Perhaps the trick is to go full zen, embrace the lack of control, bend like a reed.

She’s never been much good at bending.

So Anna digs her nails into the palm of her hands, deep breath, shoulders back and walks over to the ostentatious insta-bait bar. If she’s going to be sneered at and fail at this, she might as well do so with a drink in her hand.

The man there pays her not the slightest attention, all his focus on the tumbler that he’s polishing with a perfectionist’s eye for detail. Anna trails one hand along the front of the bar – no seams, no edge, it might as well be moulded out of water that was simply told to stay.

“Dry white wine. Please.”

The man looks up. Nondescript, he could be any age between late twenties and somewhere in his fifties. Anna is confident that if she were to leave this room and be interrogated as to whom she had talked to this evening she’d be utterly unable to supply any useful identifying information.

“No wine. We’re not that kind of bar.” And then goes back to his glass.

The most ordinary person you’ll ever see, was how Papa described him. It’s nearly ridiculous how ordinary he is. But you’ll know him because he’s always acting like a… he trailed off, muttering something inaudible. Each breath was a labour, that alarming little gap in the middle becoming more pronounced.

Prick, he said at last.

Bingo.

And despite the transparent power play, Anna’s interest flares. The first person is right where Papa said he’d be.

“So what would you recommend?” Anna asks, leaning into the bar.

The man looks up again, mildly startled to still see her here.

“Whiskies. We do those.”

“Works for me. But not one of those 60 years old £500 a sip,” she smiles. Despite her good intentions to be done with this as soon as possible, this is getting interesting. “Pour me whatever you’d pour for yourself after a really long day.”

He looks to be in his mid-thirties, no, forties. More? How old would he have been in 1980? Another drawn out pause before he turns to reach for a bottle.

“Stoph, is it?” Anna says. The man neither freezes nor stares, but there is a new care to his movements.

“He said it’d be you,” she says – more to herself than to him, but there’s a live current now. What if this actually works? “I thought: that can’t be right after all this time. But here you are.”

The man called Stoph places a tumbler in front of her, glass meets glass with a quiet click. Black eyes; no, hazel; no, the unnerving sunless blue at the heart of glaciers, reprocess her in light of fresh information.

“And who told you that?”

Anna takes a deliberate breath. “I’m looking for Lucia,” she says, pitching her voice low.

“Lot of people come here looking for Lucia.” He reaches for a bottle without even checking the label and pours a measure. “And I’d still like to know who gave you my name.”

“My father, Viktor Szelązek,” Anna replies – she’s decided that this is information to trade. The main thing is that this man is Stoph and he knows Lucia. Two hits out of three. “They knew each other, back in the day.”

But instead of replying to Anna, Stoph’s attention is hooked by something behind her. “She’s looking for Lucia,” he says and reaches for a fresh glass.

“I’d keep walking; fair warning.” The woman who sits on the stool next to Anna is the same age as her. No. Older, older than her father. No. Younger even than Anna. Black eyes, blue, brown, green. Anna blinks. Heat of the day, that’s all. Just a long day.

The woman stretches her arms in front of her until the joints crack. “You can cross Hernandez off your list,” she tells Stoph.

“He’s here?”

“Not nearly the challenge I hoped,” she says sorrowfully.

Stoph makes a move that might be shrug. He’s pulling out different bottles from underneath the bar, a dash of this, a splash of that. “A win’s a win.”

“Excuse me,” Anna interrupts. “You’re Lucia?”

The woman turns her head a fraction in Anna’s direction, the barest acknowledgement. “So they tell me. Ms?…”

“Szelązek. Anna Szelązek. You knew my father Viktor.”

Lucia yawns, catlike, without covering her mouth. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Your drink. And your schedule.” Stoph brings out a tablet with a flourish. “We’ve a busy evening. Mr Roberts arrived early – keen.”

“Warsaw, 1980,” Anna interrupts. Calm, stay calm. She still has names left to try.

“I can’t recall everyone I dealt with back then,” Lucia turns back to Stoph. “Roberts is starting to bore me. Who else?”

“He said to tell you Paweł,” Anna says, her voice steady so that every word lands. She has the sudden, sure knowledge that if she doesn’t get Lucia’s attention right now then this whole thing has been for nothing. “Paweł Woźniak.”

A beat of time – do Stoph and Lucia exchange a look?

Before today Anna had never heard this name – it was one of a handful that Papa made her memorise this morning. And then in the shoebox shoved high on a shelf in his wardrobe, she found an old UK passport with a black and white picture of Papa younger than she is now; the card with the address of this bar; a brittle, yellowing clipping from a Polish newspaper showing a grainy picture of a man in his twenties with dark, soulful eyes and a paragraph of text in a language she can’t read but which included the name Paweł Woźniak and a headline that read: ‘Odnaleziono Ciało Pracownika Fabryki.’ When she fed it into Google Translate, it came out as: ‘Body of Factory Worker Discovered.’ At the top of the cutting, in confident looping letters, someone had written: ‘Thought you’d want to know.’

“Oh Viktor,” Lucia says with a great show of only just having heard the name. Twenty-eight? Sixty-eight? One person absolutely cannot cover such a span – is she getting a migraine? “I remember Viktor,” Lucia purrs. “He was a card, was Viktor. We had some high times, used to go drinking in the hard currency bars, valuta bars.” She pauses, a slight softening as the memory unfolds. “You could buy anything in those places.”

“Then after Roberts, we have a Madame Blanchard and finally Mr Zhao,” Stoph breaks in as if Anna had never spoken. “Again.”

“No rest for the wicked.” Extraordinarily, Lucia is getting to her feet, is taking a sip from the drink Stoph mixed for her, is about to leave.

“Anna, this has been a pleasure but as you can see I have a full dance card. Make an appointment and we’ll have a proper catch up – I want to hear about every little thing dear old Viktor’s been up to.”

“Next… Tuesday?” Stoph is scrolling through his tablet. This cannot be happening. “No, that doesn’t work – Saturday the 30th?”

“This can’t wait.”

“When you get to my age you’ll find that most things can,” Lucia says. “Helps you sort the wheat from the chaff, the sheep from the goats.”

Lucia already has her back to Anna; she’s starting to walk away.

“He’s dying.” It comes out louder than Anna meant but now is not the time to worry about discretion. “Stage four, Non-Hodgkins lymphoma.” She enunciates the diagnosis clearly, voice emotionless. “That’s end game. You wait til next Tuesday or whatever – he’ll be in the ground.”

Lucia is still walking. “Such is life.”

“He said you’d want to know.” Anna aims each word precisely between the second and third vertebrae of Lucia’s back. “Whether you were right.”

Lucia stops.

“And am I?”

“I don’t know,” Anna takes a sip of whisky to stop herself sagging with relief. “But hear me out…”

Lucia turns without hurry. For the first time she faces Anna full on.

If Stoph’s appraisal of her was obvious, Lucia’s drills right through her skin and every lie, every half-truth, every scrap of confidence building to get yourself through the day in thirty-five years of being human.

Anna forces herself to meet it without flinching.

Lucia nods once. “Well played, Viktor; neatly done,” she murmurs. “Stoph, tell Mr Roberts I’ve been held up.”

“But… the schedule?” For the first time, Stoph looks caught off guard.

“Bring him a drink, on the house.” Lucia’s voice is still friendly but there’s steel beneath.

Stoph drops his eyes and briefly dips his head. If Anna had to bet on it, she’d say he was angry.

Lucia picks up her drink and surveys the room, something proprietary about the way she takes in every detail. She nods to Anna again and strolls over to a pair of aquamarine armchairs. Her progress is like that of a magnet through iron filings. Most faces tilt towards her and those that don’t look like they’re making a deliberate statement. A few people stand and one man goes so far as to make a low bow. Lucia takes her time, leaning down to greet a few favoured individuals, to grasp the hand of the man who bowed, drinking in every drop of attention. After she’s passed, the murmuring intensifies and the faces go back to watching one another, measuring for reactions.

When they finally reach the armchairs, Lucia takes the seat that gives her a clear view, leaving Anna to sit with her back to empty space. Lucia flings herself down with a sigh, long legs crossing; no, neatly trousered ankles; no, a pair of wicked stilettos. No.

Anna places her glass carefully on the table and stares at it.

Lucia gives a low, throaty chuckle.

“It can take newcomers like that. Don’t worry, it’ll settle. So. Anna Szelązek.” Despite herself Anna looks up and then quickly down again. “You have my undivided attention. Of course, you’ll know all about me. You’ll have grown up on the stories. How did he describe me?”

“I never heard about you before today,” Anna says. “Sorry.”

“How unusual. Most people… No matter.”

“He needs your help,” Anna says. Lucia allows the silence to stretch between them. This is her last good card and Anna is curiously reluctant to play it. “To find… Jolanta. He said you’d know who that was.” Again the silence unspools. “I’m guessing an old girlfriend or something,” she says at last. It doesn’t sound as convincing out loud.

“Or something,” Lucia agrees pleasantly. “Viktor talk to you much about the old country?”

“A… no, not really.”

“And you never asked?”

As I sip my Glow Tea, I close my eyes and chant my Magic Morning Mantras. I’ve written them down on pink sticky notes and stuck them to the fridge. By now I know them all by heart, but I’ve kept them there to inspire my older sister, Tess, to develop a more positive attitude.

Every day, I glow and grow!

I think beautiful thoughts!

Gratitude is my attitude!

Eva, my mentor, suggested that I start using the Mantras to prime myself for the day ahead. I copied them all out by hand straight from the Little Pink Book, our employee handbook at Shimmer. Technically, Shimmer is a beauty company that sells luxury makeup and skincare. In reality, though, it’s so much more. As our Founder and CEO Gwendolyn Tinsley says, Shimmer is a lifestyle. A purpose. A state of mind.

I hear the kitchen door creak open, and I open my eyes, startled. It’s only Tess, dressed in a shapeless, stained T-shirt and dingey grey trackies. This morning, she looks especially exhausted. Her undereye bags are even worse than usual, purplish and crusted with mysterious yellow gunk. Clearly, she’s been forgetting to apply the Chrysalis Elixir Undereye Serum that I gifted her for her 30^th birthday last month.

“I still can’t believe you drink that crap,” she says, wrinkling her nose at my mug of Glow Tea. “It smells like regurgitated jelly babies.”

“Well, no one’s asking you to drink it, are they?” I reply, with a bright smile.

“You’re forcing me to smell it though,” she mutters, shuffling over to the stove, and taking down her worn-out black Bialetti from the cupboard. (I’ve tried to explain to her many times that caffeine is very dehydrating and that it can inflame your skin, but she doesn’t seem to care.) I watch in silence as she pours her favourite dark roast beans into the grinder.

“You’re up early,” I say. “Decided to try the Morning Mantras? They really help.”

She shakes her head.

“God no. I’m not a psychopath.” She glares at me. “I just have a breakfast meeting.”

“Maybe you should consider it. Eva says that –

My voice is lost in the roar of the grinder. Tess hates Eva, though they have never met. Probably it’s because Eva has become sort of like an older sister to me since I started working at Shimmer three months ago. It annoys me that Tess is so jealous and childish, but I remind myself of the second Magic Mantra – I think beautiful thoughts! – and flash her a wide, patient smile.

“…waking up early is proven to boost energy and regulate your circadian rhythm,” I finish, after the roar dies.

Tess spoons the ground coffee into her espresso pot, then pats the dense brown grounds hard with the bottom of the spoon. As she screws the two halves of the pot together, she frowns, and I can’t help but notice that this emphasises the elevens between her eyebrows, and her deep premature nasolabial lines. She also has a huge hormonal pimple on her chin. It’s massive, more of a boil, really. I don’t know how I didn’t notice it when she first walked in the kitchen. I am wondering if I should offer her one of my Chrysalis Miracle Pimple Patches, when she glares at me again.

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?” I say, quickly turning away from her to rinse out my empty mug in the sink. It’s my favourite mug. I was gifted it during Start of a Dream, which is what we call onboarding at Shimmer. It’s pink, of course, and on one side it says Beauty is Power in bold letters. On the other, it says Drink Me in curlicue Edwardian script.

“Staring at my spot. It’s really fucking irritating, you know? Every time we have a conversation, I feel like you don’t listen to anything I say, you’re just, like, examining my blackheads or something. You should have gone into dermatology.”

“I always listen to you,” I say. “If anything, it’s you who never listens to me. Like when I mentioned Eva just now you turned on the coffee grinder.

“Yeah, because you talk about her all the time. You’re obsessed.”

“Tess, for the first time ever I work somewhere I’m valued, where I’m part of something unique. Eva is the first line manager I’ve had who actually cares about me. She thinks that I have real potential. I’ve only been at the company a few months, and she’s already put me in charge of the Flutter Lash campaign. Is it so bad that I’m excited?”

Tess is silent for a moment. Her Bialetti bubbles and she takes it off the heat.

“I am happy for you Jojo,” she says. “I’m just tired and grouchy, ok? Come here.”

We hug. Tess always smells nice, like detergent and coconut conditioner. I feel a surge of love for her. She really does look exhausted. And that boil on her chin is just horrible. I can almost see it pulsing, as if there’s something inside trying to get out. Again, I consider asking her if she wants me to buy her some skincare with my employee discount but decide that it might not be the right moment. Besides, I can hear the gentle chimes of my second alarm coming from my bedroom. I need to begin the Ten-Step Skincare Ritual right away or there won’t be time for my Papillon Pore Perfector to activate.

“Love you Tessy,” I say, giving one of her rough, unmanicured hands a tight squeeze. She really could use some Flutter Butter hand lotion too, I think. “I hope you have a magical day.”

She snorts, and looks like she’s about to say something sarcastic, but then she just sighs, and her shoulders slump a little.

“You too, bubs. Now, you’d better start on your Ten Steps. We can’t let Eva see you unexfoliated, can we?”

I know she’s making fun of me, but at least her smile is affectionate. Also, to be honest, she’s right. I would never show up to my Empower Hour without having completed the Ritual. It would make me feel naked, unprepared, exposed, as though I’d forgotten to wear underwear. Besides, as the Little Pink Book says, skincare is selfcare. It’s important to take charge of your skin if you want to look and feel like the best version of yourself. And that, after all, is what Shimmer is all about.

Once I’ve had an invigorating ice shower, cleansed, and exfoliated, I go to my bedroom and sit down in front of my vanity table. My bedroom is small, but I invested my first paycheck in a beautiful antique vanity with a tryptic mirror, so that I can see my reflection from all different angles. I have all my supplies laid out in front of me on the marble countertop, from right to left, in the order that I will be using them. In my first month at Shimmer, I had to refer to the Little Pink Book quite frequently, but now I can do all Ten Steps completely from memory, so that when I start it’s soothing, like Tai Chi for the face. It makes me feel calm and powerful.

I love the Ritual, and the attention to detail that it requires. It’s not easy. It takes time, skill, and focus to truly master each of the Steps. Take the Metamorphosis Miracle Moisturiser as an example. Most people, like Tess, would just slather on their moisturiser any which way, but if you really want to reap all of its many benefits, this is how it’s done, according to the Little Pink Book:

First, scoop a small amount of your Triple M into your Skincare Spatula. Then, warm it between your fingertips for about thirty seconds, or until it becomes translucent, to release the Magic Matrix ™ of ingredients, and gently pat it onto your forehead, cheeks, and chin. Next, take your rose-quartz Butterfly Gua Sha and use it to perform the Magic Massage (see p.46). Finally, finish with gentle taps over your forehead and cheeks to stimulate microcirculation. And that’s it! Glowing, lifted, smooth skin in just four quick and easy steps!

Only a few weeks ago, I was still struggling with this part of the Ritual. In fact, I even gave myself a slight, temporary twitch by pressing my Gua Sha into the wrong facial muscles. Now though, my hands glide effortlessly, making each of the necessary gestures of their own accord. I feel like a concert pianist who has mastered a particularly difficult piece.

Of course, just because I’ve mastered the Ten Steps, doesn’t mean that there isn’t any room for improvement. As the LPB says, every day we glow and grow. As I knead my rose quartz Butterfly Gua Sha into my cheeks, I can’t help but notice that my left eyelid is drooping ever so slightly and that the pores on my forehead look larger than usual. I make a mental note of these imperfections. Later I will catalogue them in the Radiant Reflections section of the LPB and try to brainstorm possible solutions. Perhaps I should try one of our more aggressive exfoliating masks, like our Radiant Revolution Resurrection Resurfacer, though it’s been known to cause mild burns if applied incorrectly.

Still, despite these minor annoyances, I’m excited. Every day is important at Shimmer but today is especially important, because of my new assignment.

“Flutter Lash is one of our most important launches this quarter, Joanna,” Eva had told me at our last Empower Hour. “Normally I would draft the taglines for it myself, but you’ve really impressed all of us since you started. You’re one of our most promising Phase Ones. That’s why I want to give you the chance to get your teeth into as many new projects as you can. Your Phase Two is less than three months away. This is your chance to prove to all of us that you have what it takes to progress.”

Two hours later, I am as ready as I’ll ever be. Before I leave, I always spend a few minutes looking at my reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of my bedroom door, evaluating myself from head to toe and back again. Today, I look quite good, I think, overall. Of course, I may never be as stunning as Eva, but I look better than most of the other Phase Ones, to be honest. My medium brown hair hangs in loose curls over my shoulders. My green eyes look larger than usual, thanks to the three generous coats of Flutter Lash mascara that I’ve applied. And my skin looks nearly flawless due to my painstakingly blended Glow Filter foundation. I’m proud of my outfit too: a new, pale pink cashmere jumper and high-rise white trousers – this is my own touch, and it’s a tribute to Shimmer’s signature colours. That’s the kind of thing Eva notices. Around my wrist, I wear the silver key charm bracelet that I was gifted on my first day. It complements my new pale pink manicure beautifully.

I check the contents of my handbag – laptop, phone, LPB, keys, makeup bag – and then swipe on one last coat of Nectarshine Lip Gloss. Now I am ready to glow.

Chapter 2

I know that gratitude is the attitude, but to tell the truth, my commute is my least favourite part of my day. If I were a Phase Two, I could afford to hire a car instead of taking the Tube. Actually, the best thing would be to have a bed right there, inside the Magic Office, like Eva. But I’m getting way ahead of myself. I may be a High Potential but even getting through Phase One isn’t a sure thing.

When I arrive at the station, the low-ceilinged, circular tunnel that leads to the platform is clogged with people. Bodies press in on me from all sides. I can barely move forward in the slow human ooze. Down here, the air is hot and moist. Sweat coats my forehead and upper lip. I can almost feel the pollution and the free radicals in the air penetrating deep into my pores. When, at last, I squeeze into one of the crowded carriages, I have to close my eyes for a moment and focus on the Morning Mantras to avoid falling into a negativity spiral. I think beautiful thoughts, I repeat to myself, over and over, as I clutch tightly onto the slippery safety rail. When I have enough room to manoeuvre, I take a tissue out of my bag and hold it over my nose, inhaling through my mouth, so I don’t have to breathe in the BO of the man standing in front of me, his armpit almost directly in my face.

At last, the train pulls into Covent Garden. As soon as I step off the crowded carriage, I feel a little better.

Right in front of me, I see one of our advertisements. The poster is glossy and new. It must have just gone up overnight. It shows Gwendolyn Tinsley, Shimmer’s Founder and CEO, with a silver jar of our new Chrysalis Miracle Dream Cream, the newly launched nighttime version of one of our most popular moisturisers, cupped in her outstretched hands. She stands in front of a blank pink backdrop, her long red hair fanned out around her perfect, luminous face as though blown by a light breeze. She wears scarlet silk pyjamas and a matching eye mask lifted over her forehead. Pale pink butterflies hover in the air around her, as though drawn to her, or to the silver jar that she is holding. The tagline beneath her reads Dare to Dream.

As I walk down the platform towards the lifts, I see that the entire station is covered with Shimmer posters. At least twenty giant Gwendolyns smile benevolently down at me from all sides.

When I finally make it to the surface, the air is cool and refreshing. A light rain gives all the shop windows and streetlights a hazy glow. The sky is still half dark, though when I check my phone, I see that it is already 8:30 am.

Even before I see the Store, I catch its scent on the breeze. It’s a lovely, sweet, floral scent that’s hard to describe. It makes me nostalgic for something, but I can never quite remember what. A flavoured lip gloss I’d coveted in middle school? A sweet I’d enjoyed as a child? As I walk down James Street, the scent gets even stronger, and I inhale the spicy, musky base notes.

Then, I turn the corner, and there it is, just ahead of me, the Shimmer Flagship Store. It’s in a majestic seventeenth-century townhouse, painted our signature pale pink. This morning, it looks especially beautiful. The elegant neoclassical portico is lit a soft gold. Sparkling garlands of fairy lights adorn the high, brilliantly lit windows. Even though it is a weekday, and the store only opens in an hour and a half, a long line of women and girls reels back from the black spiked gates and stretches all the way around the façade and up a flight of steps beneath the portico. They’re all here for the Dream Cream launch. I know that Shimmer already employs three security guards to monitor the flow of people in and out of the store, but Eva mentioned in our last Empower Hour that they may need to hire more. “Other brands have customers,” she said. “Shimmer has fans.”

I start to walk more quickly, my feet gliding over the wet cobbles, towards the store’s warm pink glow. As I walk up the steps, I ignore the jealous glances of all the girls waiting in line, huddled beneath their umbrellas. Sixth Formers skiving off school. PAs hoping they can get in and out before work. A lot of straining, blotchy chins. One terrible boil, just like Tess’s. I flash my ID at the security guards, he says something into his walkie-talkie, and then everyone steps aside for me. The automatic doors open with a whoosh.

Then I am inside.

His gray gaze peers at me over the top of his newspaper, and I squirm. Hard spindles press against my spine, trapping me in place.

“He’s suspicious,” a male voice whispers.

I pretend I don’t hear the voice. Like I always do.

My corset cages my torso tightly as I avert my attention to the table that’s far too formal for my taste. I grasp my fork with clumsy fingers and mentally recite Mrs. Hartley’s extensive list of dos and don’ts during a proper English dinner. Use the correct cutlery, don’t drag my sleeve in the soup, and keep my shoulders down and back straight. The pressure to perform properly is exhausting.

I accidentally clink my fork against my plate, and Grandfather lowers his Gazeta de Puerto Rico. Sounds that might be overlooked at a crowded dinner are obscenely loud when our long table is only occupied by two. As it always is.

For the hundredth time, I wish for someone else to act as a buffer between me and his moods.

The flickering flames of the massive silver candelabra worsen the dull headache behind my eyes, and illuminate floral wallpaper that perfectly matches Grandfather’s merlot. He usually savors one glass of wine throughout dinner, but he’s already into his third tonight.

When I catch him watching me again, I timidly ask, “Is something wrong, Grandfather?” My hands tremble in my lap, a slight crinkling from my dress pocket reminding me of the paper inside. The letter that has consumed my thoughts since the post arrived earlier today.

“Don’t ask him. He’ll say no.”

I don’t turn my head. I don’t let the polite smile drop from my face. I don’t give any indication anyone has spoken.

Instead, I clasp my hands together under the table and will them not to shake and betray me. The first time the voice spoke to me was last August; it intrudes my thoughts often, even though I never respond.

I can’t tell Grandfather. He might shut me away in the attic, or ship me off to an asylum. If I ignore the voice, it will stop. It must stop.

“Coraline? Coraline?” Grandfather’s tone is sharp with impatience. “You are clumsy and distracted tonight. Are you unwell? Shall I send for Doctor Latchfield?”

My stomach drops at his words, and I shiver in my blush pink satin dress. “I’m fine,” I whisper. I don’t want the doctor.

Dipping a hand into the pocket of my dress, I clutch the paper inside as if it’s my lifeline in a stormy sea. I’ll ask Grandfather when he’s in a better mood. When he’s less likely to refuse.

Grandfather’s attention returns to his newspaper, and I pick at my food while the enormous clock in the corner ticks loudly.

Tick-tic. Tick-tic. Tick-tic.

Silence stretches between us like a taut thread.

“The house on the other cliff has renters,” I finally blurt out.

Grandfather’s paper lowers. His stormy gaze glares at me over the top. “That’s impossible. Don’t invent gossip for your own amusement.”

I flinch. “I didn’t make it up. Daniel saw a carriage at Casa de la Flores today and servants unloading trunks.”

Grandfather pushes his chair back and hurls the newspaper on the table. Without a word or a glance at me, he marches from the room.

I wait until the heavy front door slams before I scurry up the curved wooden stairway to my bedroom where Isabel waits with cold hands and warm candlelight.

“You’re finished with dinner early, Miss Cora,” she says, her Jamaican accent rich and soothing.

“He stormed out when I mentioned the new neighbors.”

My ghost servant unfastens my dress, and I shiver when her icy palm accidentally brushes my spine. Isabel’s hands are always cold. So very, very, cold.

Even though her form is semi-transparent, she’s a beautiful woman with a colorful scarf covering her head, and a bright yellow blouse and matching skirt hugging her full-figured frame.

When the final tie of my dress is unfastened, I kick out of the pale pink satin that matches my bedspread, curtains, wall hangings, and even my robe. Grandfather assumes every girl loves pink.

Isabel pulls a white cotton nightgown over my head, exhaling a loud sigh. “Are you surprised by his anger? He wants these cliffs to himself. He doesn’t like people nosing into his business.”

I pull my thick hair out of the neckline and say wistfully, “I want neighbors.”

“I know you do. I’ve always wished that devil didn’t keep you so isolated here,” she mutters, “I know you’re curious about them, but please be careful, Miss Cora.”

The new neighbors aren’t the only thing I’m curious about. I ache to ask Isabel one of the questions constantly on the tip of my tongue, but she won’t answer them. She never answers them. She claims she can’t.

“Would you like a story tonight?” she asks, gathering my voluminous dress from the floor.

No. I don’t want another of her crazy tales about lifelike marioneta’s given the breath of God, small children kept captive in dark houses, Mami Wata in the sea, or the bloodsucking Soucouyant waiting to devour poor souls. I’m tired of stories.

“No thank you, Isabel,” I whisper, “you may go.”

As she floats toward the door, my chest tightens as I remember the letter still trapped inside the pocket of the pink dress.

“Leave the dress.”

Her brows raise in surprise. “I must clean it.”

“It’s fine for another wear,” I say firmly.

“If you wish.” She drapes it on the foot of the bed before floating out the door.

I stare at my reflection in the Cheval mirror. “If only you could give me answers.”

The reflective surface shifts, and Mirror-Cora appears. I always get a strange little tingle up and down my spine whenever she visits me. Mirror-Cora may look like me, but she has her own unique personality trapped behind the pane of glass.

“Did you tell him about the letter?” she asks, her tone curious.

I shake my head.

“Why not?” she whispers, leaning close as if we’re co-conspirators playing a game together.

I knot the belt of my robe and fix my full attention on her.

“Weren’t you spying on us from the China cabinet?” I demand.

She shrugs. “I can’t hear when you whisper. Besides, I like our conversations. I know you do too.”

I do. It’s true. Mirror-Cora is like a box of imported chocolates I enjoy in private. My secret companion Grandfather knows nothing about. Although he manages to ignore Isabel and the fact that she’s a ghost who can turn her hands corporal to perform her servant duties, if he found out about Mirror-Cora I’m afraid he’d steal her away and leave me completely friendless. Nothing about our house is normal, but he pretends it is.

“It wasn’t the right time to ask,” I murmur.

Mirror-Cora watches me closely. She likes not having to mimic my movements when we’re alone. “Did you lose your courage?”

“Don’t be silly.”

I tie the end of my braid with a pink ribbon.

I hate pink.

Mirror-Cora shrugs. “Another night of waiting won’t kill you. Remember, patience is a virtue.”

I have been patient, however, the thought of staying here even a day longer than necessary makes my skin itch.

I need to be free.

But I can’t tell that to the girl trapped in mirrors.

After slipping the precious letter safely under my pillow, I slide beneath the bedspread edged with itchy white lace.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

My stomach sinks when I recognize the impatient knock. I’d hoped he’d forgotten about me tonight.

I pad barefoot to the door, pulling it half open. “Yes, Grandfather?”

He scowls at my robe and long braids. “You didn’t perform for me tonight, Coraline.”

My stomach clenches into a tight knot. I’ve displeased him. Again. “I didn’t realize you still wanted me to.”

He motions me into the dark hall. His candle trails smoke that burns my eyes as I follow him down the stairs to the first floor.

I imagine that walking into the music room is like entering a deep-sea cave. Walls of indigo that match the farthest line of the ocean press in on all sides while curtains of shimmering cerulean silk ripple in a way that disorients my smoke sensitive eyes.

Holding back a yawn, I trail him inside.

Why couldn’t this wait until tomorrow?

Grandfather places the candle on the luminous back of the baby grand before settling into the only comfortable seat in the room, a cavernous mazarine velvet chair with a matching footstool.

I lower myself onto the hard wooden bench and rearrange the music sheets of the four songs Grandfather always requests. The first movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, Chopin’s Prelude in E minor, Claude Debussy’s Clair de lune and Reverie.

My fingers are stiff, so I take a moment to flex them before I touch the bone white ivory keys and my first note rends the thick silence. Even though I don’t consider myself a particularly skilled pianist, I lean forward on the bench and lose myself in the vibrations, the rhythm, and the emotion each song stirs.

Wrists aching after the final haunting note, I turn, ready to receive Grandfather’s clinical assessment of my performance. He always finds some fault.

His jacket rests on the arm of the chair, his head is thrown back, his normally firm mouth slack. He’s never fallen asleep like this before. It’s strange to see him relaxed.

I rise from the bench, eager to slip away to my bedroom.

“He’ll be angry if you leave him here,” the voice whispers.

Sometimes I wish the voice wasn’t so insightful.

The deep indigo rug is plush beneath my toes as I approach Grandfather’s chair. I touch his arm, and his eyes jerk open. Fear crosses his features for an instant before his expression softens slightly.

“What is it, Coraline?” he rasps, blinking rapidly.

I withdraw my hand from his arm.

My fingers feel sticky. I startle at the crimson coating their tips.

I take a step closer, my stomach twisting at the sight of blood staining his white sleeve.

“How did you injure your arm, Grandfather?” I whisper.

His expression darkens and he jerks his arm away. “It’s nothing.”

“Shall I fetch bandages and antiseptic? I can clean it for you.” I offer, even though the thought of cleaning a bloody wound makes my knees weak.

“I said it’s nothing,” he snaps. “Leave me alone and go back to bed, Coraline.”

My spine stiffens, but my thoughts race as I retrieve the candelabra from the back of the piano.

Pausing in the doorway, I wonder at a sudden reluctance to leave him. He doesn’t need me. He doesn’t need anyone.

The blood on his sleeve is mysterious, but that’s not what makes my hands shake as I finally pinpoint the source of my unease: Tonight is the first time I’ve ever seen Grandfather afraid.

“Shall I fetch you a light, Grandfather?” I offer quietly.

His laugh is low and bitter. His steely eyes glow strangely.

“Don’t bother. I’ve already made friends with the dark.”

Chapter 2

~Cora~

Blood-red blooms behind my eyelids.

Water laps into my ears, muting the world around me as I try to imagine myself away from white sand and dark secrets, as I try to imagine myself weightless and pain free, as I try to imagine myself as anyone but me.

The morning sun kisses my face as my nightgown tugs back and forth with the gentle waves. The ocean is usually a temporary escape from the judgmental gaze of Grandfather and the cold oppressiveness of his house, but this morning, it’s as if he’s followed me here.

I can’t forget the blood on his sleeve or the fear that flashed in his eyes.

Why is Grandfather afraid?

Something brushes against my bare leg. Panic tightens my chest as my feet sink until they touch sand. After rubbing saltwater from my eyes, I scan the water, a relieved laugh bubbling from my lips when I spot a turtle beside me, its flippers sending circular ripples around us. It lingers only a moment before swimming out into the waves. It makes escape appear easy.

Returning to my back, I surrender my body to the lapping waves again. But the peace I crave slips through my fingertips like sand.

Sudden pressure bands my arm, dragging me through the water. My mouth and nose flood with saltwater as I kick, cough and splutter, lungs burning.

I gasp for breath, squinting up into the bright sunlight to glare at my attacker: a young girl in a pale blue dress soaked up to her shoulders.

“What are you doing?” I demand.

“I’m saving you.”

I wrench my arm free, and her hand drops in the crystal-clear water with a soft splash.

My heart is pounding hard, my chest pinched so tight I can barely breathe. “I was floating,” I snap as I awkwardly stand. My nightgown has suctioned to my legs, so I yank the fabric away, hoping the little intruder wasn’t looking.

“I realize that now. I’m so sorry. I thought you needed help.” Her porcelain cheeks flush red, a sharp contrast to blonde hair that frames blue eyes. I’ve never felt so brown.

“I’m Lily.” She extends a dripping hand.

I can’t tell if her stutter is because she’s cold, or nervous. I don’t want her to be afraid of me like I am of Grandfather.

“Cora.” I say, reluctantly giving her small hand a squeeze before releasing it quickly. Her warm skin is foreign after ten months of only Isabel’s cold touch.

“Is this a safe place to swim?” she asks.

“Nothing about the ocean is safe. You must be careful of the currents. They’ve swept many poor souls out to sea.” I cross my arms over my chest. “This is private property, what are you doing here?”

She points to the trail hidden behind mangroves. “I found the path and wanted to see where it led. Is there an easier way down?”

“No. The steep climb is good at keeping trespassers away.”

Her face falls, and I realize my rudeness. She's only a child, I should try to be kinder.

Her glass eyes have hazel irises, with golden petals painted around the pupils like sunflowers. She feels so real that he has draped a sheet around her naked shoulders to preserve her modesty until he can make her clothing. He imagines her in gowns of sherbet yellow and rose pink. She is almost finished now. Some final touches will achieve the perfection he knows is near, will make her seem alive.

Elsewhere in the building, far away enough for Daedalus to claim not to hear, Robert calls his name. Daedalus selects satin thread of palest peach, and brings his needle to the side of the doll’s head. He pulls loops of thread tight to create an arched valley in the silk which follows the curve of her ear. He ignores Robert’s calls, lost in the silk and the stillness of the room.

Robert calls again, closer this time. Daedalus scowls and puts down the needle. Robert should know better than to disturb him while he works. He should know that the Swallow’s success depends on Daedalus’ artistry and genius. Daedalus needs time alone without distraction to nourish his creativity.

The door bursts open, letting in the jangling noise of the band warming up downstairs in the club. There is a sudden blur of scuffed shoes, sticky hands and tangled, golden curls. Robert catches his twins and tucks one under each arm. He laughs his booming laugh without apologising for the chaos he has delivered.

“Stay back, you rapscallions,” Robert says, dropping a kiss onto each of the blonde heads he has captured. “Or Uncle Davey won’t agree to look after you.”

Persephone bares her teeth. Conrad blinks slowly.

Daedalus rubs his forehead. His head has started to throb. Robert really is impossible. If anything, his time away in the trenches has only made him louder. It’s bad enough he still insists on calling Daedalus ‘Davey,’ a name nobody else has used since their schooldays. ‘Uncle Davey’ is even worse, especially as they are not related. Robert feels like a brother to him, but Daedalus wants no connection to the twins.

“I’m taking Marigold to supper,” Robert says. “She’s unwell again, so I should make sure she eats before this evening’s performance. I won’t inflict these monsters on her when she’s ill.”

“Now, Robert, I hardly think—” Daedalus begins. He values Robert’s friendship, but has never understood why this means he must tolerate the twins.

“Be good for Uncle Davey, my darlings,” Robert says. He kisses the twins once more, pushes them into the room, then makes his exit.

Daedalus looks at the twins, already exhausted by their presence. Persephone has a mouthful of toast tangled in her hair, and Conrad isn’t wearing any shoes. Both their mouths are smeared with what looks like raspberry jam but might plausibly be the blood of previous caretakers. Looking into Daedalus’ eyes, Persephone extracts the toast from her hair and takes a bite.

“Are you making a voodoo doll, Uncle Davey?” Persephone asks, her mouth full of toast. “Is she evil?”

Conrad starts to cry. Persephone offers her best impression of innocence, blinking her cornflower blue eyes and offering a smile that’s only a little bit malevolent.

“Stop that noise, Conrad,” Daedalus says with a frustrated sigh. “She’s not a voodoo doll. Come closer and I’ll show you. She’s the loveliest thing you’ll ever see.”

Conrad trembles. He tries to clutch Persephone’s arm, but she gives him a shove towards Daedalus and the doll. With another nervous glance at his sister, Conrad joins Daedalus at his desk. Daedalus would like to send Conrad away, but realises he wants the child to recognise his genius.

“Why are you making her?” Conrad stays an arm’s length away from the doll and frowns at her. “What’s she for?”

“I’m always making clothes for the club performers,” Daedalus explains. It shouldn’t matter to him that this child admires his creation, but it does. “The dresses hang here in my studio with nobody to wear them until I deliver them downstairs. She’s going to wear the clothes. And I’ve been all alone up here since your father moved you all next door. She’s going to keep me company.”

“Like a friend?” Conrad asks, stepping closer. “She really isn’t evil? Do you promise?”

“Look,” Daedalus says, running one hand over the soft silk of the doll’s scalp. “Do you see how I’ve sewn her skin from silk? She has glass eyes, like they give the soldiers who lost eyes in the war. And I’ve found real human hair for her head. Would you like to see?”

Conrad has stopped crying now, and gazes at the doll with a curious expression. Perhaps he understands Daedalus’ genius now. Persephone bounds across the room to join them, lured in by the prospect of real human hair. There is a glint in her eye that makes Daedalus think of wild beasts, feral and impossible to tame.

Daedalus opens his desk drawer and takes out a paper bag. He pulls out a handful of glossy curls in a rich shade of chestnut brown.

“Whose head did you steal it from?” Persephone asks.

“I bought it from the wig-maker on Wardour Street,” Daedalus says, shoving the hair back into the bag. “It’s extremely fine quality, and — Don’t touch her! She’s mine!”

He grabs Conrad, who has reached out towards the doll, but he is too late. Conrad’s small, sticky hand is already wrapped around her slender arm. When Daedalus pulls him back, shaking with fury, a dollop of jam mars the silk. It scars the doll’s smooth, white wrist with a perfect, scarlet heart.

“Enough!” Daedalus says, and dismisses the twins to the corner of the room, where they sit in angry disgrace.

He tries to scrub away the mark, but it has already seeped into the creamy silk and nothing will remove it. He looks at the doll’s lovely face, offering a wordless apology for letting her be harmed. Her sunflower eyes reflect the flickering candlelight, and he almost believes she is looking back at him.

Chapter One

London

January, 1929

The girl is alone, blanketed by darkness. The walls press against her back and her right arm. She is in a corner. The word comes to her, alongside the concept of a corner, but she doesn’t know how it arrived in her brain. She has thoughts, it seems, words that swim through her mind. Has she always had thoughts? Everything feels new.

There are words outside her mind as well. She hears them slice through the darkness. She shifts her weight, leaning her ear against the smooth wood to her right, making the words clearer.

“You look tired, my friend,” a man’s voice says. How does she know this is a man? But she does. His voice feels familiar; husky and comforting.

“I’m holding on. I’m not an old man yet.” Another male voice, deeper and louder. She doesn’t recognise this voice, but there is a warmth in it that sounds kind.

There is a shelf behind the girl, digging into her spine. The word ‘cupboard’ comes to her like she has always known it. It feels like she has been here for a long time, even though she was aware of nothing before now.

She takes a shaky breath, drawing in air that tastes stale from the gloom around her. There is nothing to do but breathe and listen to the voices outside.

“You’re not an old man, no. Not yet. But not a happy man, either.”

“I’m starting another year in a world without her in it. How could I be happy?”

Silence for a few moments. The girl adjusts her posture. There is a large sheet of cloth draped over her shoulders. It is thin but still provides some extra warmth in the chill of the room. She draws it closer around her chest and feels like the fabric wants to be there, wants to comfort her.

“I miss her, Davey. Not all the time. But most of the time.”

“I know.”

“I could feel her with me tonight. Did you see the moon? So huge and so orange. It was like that the night she came to us. Do you remember?”

“I remember everything.”

The girl spreads her fingers over the wood in front of her, then drags them sideways until she hits brick. Again, the words arrive already formed in her head. Wood and brick. She has no memory of these materials, but has their names stored and ready for use. Now, she moves her fingers between the two substances and wonders why they are different. The wood must be here for a reason. It is a bridge between herself and the voices outside. If only she could find a way to break through it.

“Well, Davey, my bed is calling to me.”

“Your bed or your whiskey?”

“Thank you for the company. And the commiseration.”

“Sleep well.”

“I never do.”

A door opens with a creak, then closes. A door. The word appears in her mind and the girl realises that’s what she is touching here. The wooden panel is a door, and it should open.

When she moves again, searching for a handle to open the door, her ankle rolls. She falls, colliding with the shelves. Unknown objects tumble through the darkness and clatter to the floor.

Footsteps move across the floor on the other side of the wood, coming closer. The girl crouches down and buries her head in her knees. She tangles her fingers through soft locks of hair and pulls the sheet over her head to cover her face.

Light floods through the cupboard. She can see it even through her closed eyes and the cloth draped over her. It sends red and pink sparks across the inside of her eyelids where before there was only black. She forces herself to open her eyes, needing to understand what is happening.

The wooden wall has moved, opening out into the room beyond the cupboard. In its place stands a man. He is tall and slender, with mousy brown hair slicked back from his face and serious, grey eyes. He stares at her as if he knows her, lips parted in astonishment.

When he speaks, he sounds breathless. His voice is less confident than it sounded when she heard him through the cupboard door.

“It’s you,” he says. “It’s really you.”

“You know me?” She is surprised her voice works.

The man smiles. It changes his face, bringing warmth into his grey eyes and dimples to his cheeks.

“Come out of the cupboard. Sit with me.”

She can feel his eyes on her as she clambers up from the floor. Her ankle throbs when she steps on it, but it supports her weight. She clutches the sheet as she moves, wearing it as a cape. She feels supported by the fabric.

“Sit here by the fire,” the man says, directing her to a low armchair beside a fireplace. “You must be cold. I’ll find you something warmer to wear.”

He disappears through a door across the room, promising to return. She sits. The arms of the chair are shiny wood, cold to touch. She avoids them, instead pressing her hands into the cushioned seat. It is soft and cream with zigzags of chocolate brown running across I in shiny thread. She runs her fingers along this thread. It calms her.

When the man comes back, he brings a grey flannel robe with a tartan collar and sash.

“It’s old, but it’s clean,” he says. “I’ll find you better clothes in the morning, but for now it will keep you warm. That dress is beautiful, but it isn’t right for January.”

He hands her the robe. She holds it in her lap, unsure how she should wear it.

“Put your arms through the sleeves, see?” He says, lifting the robe to show her.

She follows his instruction and puts the robe on over her dress, then returns her sheet to her shoulders on top. Once dressed, she looks back at the man, waiting for him to speak. He is staring at her, mouth slightly open. She blinks and he seems to startle, shaking his head.

“Do you like cheese?" he asks, speaking quickly. “And ham?”

It sounds like it should be an easy question to answer. She knows he is talking about food, and she should know what she likes. But she doesn’t remember ever eating before.

“Oh. I don’t know,” she says. “Perhaps?”

“Robert brought a selection round. Here, help yourself.”

He takes a wooden board from the dining table near the window. It is large, needing two hands to carry it. He sets it down on the coffee table beside the girl’s armchair. She looks at the board, filled with unfamiliar foods. There are four cheeses, all different shapes and different shades of yellow. Around the cheese are thin, pink circles she knows are ham, although she can’t guess how it will taste. There is also fruit. Plump berries in shades of vivid red and deep purple. She doesn’t know where to start.

“Try the cheddar,” the man says, noticing how clueless she feels. “This one. I’ll cut you a slice. Have it with the quince jelly on a cracker.”

He makes the snack for her, laying the cheese down on a round cracker with crimped edges. He tops it with a blob of red quince, then hands it to her. The sharpness of the cheddar takes her by surprise, but she likes it.

“It’s delicious,” she says.

“I’m glad. I thought you’d like it.”

She eats in silence, realising she is ravenous. After the cheddar, she tries a soft cheese that makes her wrinkle her nose but tastes delicious. And then something strong with threads of powdery blue running through it. Everything is wonderful. She loves it all.

The man watches her while she eats, hardly blinking. He looks confused, like he is trying to solve a puzzle. One of his fingers taps against his kneecap in a quick, unrelenting rhythm. Several times, he opens his mouth as if to ask her a question, then closes it again and nods for her to continue eating.

When she has filled up on cheese, she leans back in the armchair.

“Do I—” she starts, then stops, embarrassed.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry if it’s rude to ask, but do I…know you? You feel familiar, but I’m not sure. I don’t remember.”

He rubs his brow, looking tired. His warm smile fades, then he shakes his head and sits up straighter, frowning.

“What do you mean you don’t remember?”

“Well, I suppose I don’t remember anything at all. I was in the cupboard. Before that….I don’t know.”

He flexes his fingers like he wants to reach out to her, then returns his hand to his knee.

“Poor lamb,” he says. “You’ve had a shock. I’m not surprised it’s affected you.”

“Could you tell me who you are?”

“You don’t know?”

“I really don’t.”

He contemplates this for a moment, fingers pressed to his forehead, then he nods as if he has decided something.

“I’m your uncle,” he tells her. “Uncle Daedalus, remember? You had an accident. A few weeks ago. A train crash in Gloucestershire. Your parents, my cousin and his wife, were killed instantly. Once the hospital released you, a friend of theirs brought you here so I could look after you. You arrived this morning.”

“Oh.” She tries to imagine the accident. A train crash. It would be loud. Frightening. She wishes she could picture her parents, so recently dead, but her mind is blank. No memories come to her.

“You hit your head,” Daedalus says. “In the accident. The doctors said you might be confused for a while.”

She touches her head, searching for a lump, for a place that hurts. The skin beneath her hair is smooth. But it’s true she’s confused. She must have hit her head hard to feel so lost now.

“I saw doctors?”

“After the crash. You were very lucky to survive it.”

“But I don’t remember.”

“No, they said the injury would affect your memory. It must be frightening. But you’re here with me, now. I’ll look after you. You don’t need to hide away in cupboards anymore.”

“I didn’t…I don’t know why I was in the cupboard.”

“Of course not. Never mind. I’ll show you back to your bedroom.”

“My bedroom?”

“In the attic. It’s where you live now.”

“Oh.”

She yawns. Her head feels foggy. Perhaps this is another effect of the accident.

“Shall I ask one of the maids to go and run you a nice, hot bath?” Daedalus suggests. “You wait here. Have a brandy. I wouldn’t make a habit of it, but a stiff drink might help you right now.”

He takes a crystal glass from the bookshelf behind her and fills it with honey-coloured liquid. He presses the glass into her hand.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says.

She sips the brandy. It burns her throat. She doesn’t like it, but as soon as she swallows she takes another sip. She wants to feel something other than utter bewilderment.

“Wait,” she says, stopping him before he reaches the door.

He turns back to look at her. “Yes?”

“I don’t…I don’t know my name.”

“Ah,” he says, brow furrowed like he’s deep in thought. “Your name.”

“It feels important. I don’t like not knowing.”

“Naturally. I should have told you straight away. I apologise.”

He lingers in the doorway, watching her.

“So…could you tell me? My name, I mean.”

His expression clears. “Yes. Certainly. It’s Helena. Your name is Helena.”

“Helena,” she repeats, wondering if this feels correct.

“Indeed,” he says. “A special name. Classical. Recalling the beauty of Helen of Troy, and the devotion of Shakespeare’s Helena. It’s perfect.”

The girl does not understand these references. She is not sure she is beautiful or devoted. But she tries saying the name out loud again and likes the way the syllables flow from her mouth.

“I’ll be back shortly,” Daedalus says.

A lump rises in her throat, hard and restrictive. She doesn’t want him to leave her alone.

He seems to recognise her fear. He lowers his hand from the door handle.

“You’re safe now, Helena,” he says softly. “I’ll be right back. You never need to worry about being alone here. I’m with you.”

At his words, the lump in her throat softens. She believes him. She is safe.

We were Inge and Rose, two girls in a fairytale. We made up stories about things we couldn’t understand. Solar storms, dark matter, the far side of the moon. All the mysteries of the cosmos. We smoked until our throats burned, dared each other to lie down on train tracks and wandered in graveyards at night.

That summer, we decided we’d be witches. We wished for one thing only. To love, painfully, achingly, incurably. We longed for love. Hearts-ripped-open, kill-for-you, bleed-for-you, die-for-you love. Love that could only be unrequited. We went to the forest and in the golden light of late afternoon we wrote their names on petals with drops of blood and set them alight, chanting, “Bring us the ones we desire, love that burns like fire.” We felt our feet sinking down into the soil, into the roots, our bodies streaming through networks spread across the forest floor, up into the trunks and branches, entering the leaves.

We were powerful. There was magic in our veins and in our hearts. We could do anything. We wanted love, and we would get it. Even if it tore us apart.

CHAPTER ONE: THE WITCH’S HOUSE

Cape Town, 1989

Most of what Inge knew about the witch came from the sisters next door, Gemma, who was sixteen and Claire, fifteen, and most of what they knew came from Sunette, who lived at the end of the road directly across from the witch’s house, though she’d never actually seen the witch. None of them had. Inge, who was ten that year, would sit in the sisters’ bedroom listening to the older girls come up with theories while they smoked out the window.

“She could be under house arrest,” Sunette said.

“For what?” Gemma asked.

“Maybe she’s a paedophile,” Claire suggested.

“Don’t you have to go to jail for that?”

“Probably.”

“Or she killed her kids, then ate them.”

“Jesus, Claire. What is it with you and cannibals?”

Sunette said she’d heard wailing at night. Maybe the witch was actually a banshee, or a werewolf. Other theories included zombie, giantess or conjoined twins.

Ma told Inge how, in the past, people seen as different in some way, especially women, were often accused of being witches and even killed. “She probably just wants to be left alone,” Ma said. “I don’t blame her.”

Gemma and Claire’s mother, Mrs Walsh, said it would serve them right if the old woman really was a witch and put a curse on them. “If you’ve nothing nice to say then best say nothing at all,” she told them. Mr and Mrs Walsh were from Northern Ireland and Inge couldn’t always understand what they were saying, even though she and Ma spoke both English and Afrikaans at home. The Walshes had moved to Cape Town in the early seventies, just before Gemma was born. Their house was attached to Inge’s and painted the same peach colour, with white broekie-lace beneath the eaves. The Walsh’s front door was usually open and when Inge sat out on the stoep she could hear Mrs Walsh shouting, the sisters answering back, and Flossy the Maltese poodle yapping. Once she’d heard Mrs Walsh telling them off for using up all the toilet paper. “When I was your age we were so poor we had to wipe our arses with the Bible.” Inge wondered whether they’d kept the Bible next to the toilet, and how they decided which pages to tear out first. When Ma heard this she laughed so hard her mascara ran down her cheeks.

“Do you think she was making it up?” Inge asked.

“No, it might be true,” Ma said.

When Mrs Walsh saw Inge on the stoep she’d invite her over to taste her cooking or help pick herbs from the garden. If Mr Walsh was home he’d tell Inge stories about growing up in Derry while he stacked his pipe. The TV was always on and sometimes he’d pause his stories to comment on the news about boycotts and protests, giving a thumbs up to the crowds marching onscreen with banners reading “End Apartheid Now” and “The People Shall Govern”. “Awethu!” he’d shout along with the marchers, raising a clenched fist in salute and shaking his head. “Those Nats are worse than the Unionists.”

The best was when Inge was allowed into Gemma and Claire’s room. Behind their door was another universe. A haze of pungent Charley deodorant hung in the air, mixed with the scent of cigarette smoke. Their beds, on opposite sides of the room, were buried beneath piles of clothes that trailed to the floor. There was a full-length mirror inside the cupboard, and the sisters took turns posing and scrutinizing themselves in front of it. Gemma hated her legs, especially her thunder thighs. Claire wished her hair wasn’t so straight, and both complained about their boobs being too small, not the same size, not firm enough.

While Gemma and Claire fretted over their reflections, Inge sat on the floor looking through Blush magazines or studying the posters on the wall: George Michael from Wham! with his perfect eyebrows, Michael Jackson tipping his hat and Bananarama in stonewashed jeans and cropped jackets. Their names were written in lightning font below. There were movie posters too – Gremlins, Dirty Dancing, Jock of the Bushveld – and photos of Flossy when he was a puppy. Gemma had a double-deck cassette player so they could copy tapes from Sunette. There was always something playing, and it was always too loud for Mrs Walsh who’d shout at them to turn it down. “Can’t make out a feckin word they’re saying anyways,” she complained.

Sometimes Inge could tell the older girls had forgotten she was there. That’s when she’d hear the most interesting things, and she’d try to be as still and quiet as possible, like Brutus the cat when he was sitting in the sun with his eyes closed. The juiciest conversations took place when Sunette came over. Sunette was seventeen and in matric, and everyone said she looked like Ava Rescott from Loving. She had two older brothers and a boyfriend she kept secret from her parents because he was Indian. She’d talk about how they’d pulled in or gone to third base but still not all the way. It wasn’t until a year later, when Inge met Rose and they read Judy Blume’s Forever, that Inge understood what those words meant.

When Sunette brought her cosmetic bag she’d do makeovers on Gemma and Claire, shading their eyes like peacocks in shimmery blues and greens and smearing sparkly gloss on their lips. Once Sunette experimented on Inge, teasing her hair and dressing her in a tulle skirt with a shirt of Claire’s knotted at the waist. “You’re lucky you’re so tall,” she said, stepping back to view her handiwork. “But you need to tuck your tummy in,” she instructed. “Like this.” Sunette pushed back her shoulders and sucked in her stomach so that it made a hollow cave and Gemma and Claire sighed with envy.

Sunette attained heroine status the day she nearly saw the witch. There was a tall pine tree in Sunette’s garden. It wasn’t easy to climb, but that day she managed to make it all the way to the top, from where she could see the witch’s house. The walls were made of stone, Sunette said, and most of the house was in shadow. This was already more than any of them had seen before. Though Inge had often tried to look through the hedge, it was too thick. All you could see from the road was the black pitched roof and a tree with twisty branches reaching out like snakes towards it.

“There was something in the corner of the front stoep,” Sunette said. “It was sort of shiny, like metal …” She paused theatrically.

“What was it?” Claire asked.

“A cage,” Sunette said. “At first I thought it was empty, but then I saw something move.” Her voice went soft. “I could see its head. It was huge. And it didn’t have any eyes, just two red holes.” Sunette shuddered. “There was this sound ... It was eating something. I could hear it crunching all the way across the street.”

“What was it eating?” Gemma asked.

“Bones, probably.” Sunette couldn’t say what animal they might have been from.

“I bet they were sewer rats!” Claire said. There’d been a rumour about a pack of overgrown rodents who lived in the canals running through the neighbourhood. Apparently these rats attacked and ate cats and the occasional small dog, and once, according to Claire, a baby, though no one had been able to verify this. In later retellings, Sunette would claim she’d actually seen the bones, and a small skull.

“What about the witch? Did you see her?” Gemma asked.

“Not this time.” Sunette said she’d stayed up in the tree for over an hour until she couldn’t hold in her pee any longer.

Inge was more curious now than ever. She drew the cage and monster as Sunette had described them, so she wouldn’t forget. The house, too. She tried out different versions of the witch, with crooked grey teeth, a wart on her nose and bloodshot eyes. What if she wore some kind of disguise, or changed herself into different creatures? Maybe that was why no one had seen her before.

While Inge sat drawing on the stoep she watched people walk by, hoping one of them would be the witch. Although she hadn’t met all the neighbours, she knew who they were. Mr Walsh had told Inge that a few years before she and Ma moved to Pine Street, the neighbourhood had been racially and culturally mixed. Then, it was called Lower Claremont, because it was on the lower side of the railway line. Now it was just Claremont, and the government had declared it whites-only. Despite threats and pressure from authorities, a few Coloured families had stayed, like the Abrahams, whose children never came out to play on the street. The year before, when Mrs Matthews, already in her seventies, was ordered to vacate her home, there were protests and petitions, but still she’d been forced to move to Hanover Park in the Cape Flats. Days after she left, her cottage was torn down and a row of narrow townhouses went up in its place.

In between drawing and waiting to see the witch, Inge watched the bees hovering around the rosemary bush beneath the front-room windows, while Brutus lay stretched out on the garden path, waking now and again to sniff the air when Mrs Walsh was frying mince or sausages. Ma said Brutus definitely had nine lives. As a kitten he’d fallen three storeys from Ouma’s flat without breaking a bone. He was enormous, with big yellow eyes, and so intimidating he’d once scared off an Alsatian that strayed into the garden, putting up his hackles and hissing until it backed out through the gate, tail between its legs. Flossy wouldn’t come near him.

Now and again Brutus would twitch an ear at the sound of barking, but otherwise he slept through most noise: Santa Barbara’s theme song or the BBC news from next door, the piano coming from Ma’s room. Most of Ma’s pupils were girls around Inge’s age. When they played well, the music would float along in the back of Inge’s mind. But when they didn’t, she’d have to stop drawing and listen to every painful wrong note. Inge wondered how Ma stayed so patient. Once, when she was teaching one of her worst students, a girl who never practised or made any progress, Inge peeked in through the window and was surprised to see Ma standing in front of it, smoking a cigarette and frowning when she saw Inge. The girl at the piano was dragging her wrists on the keyboard, shoulders hunched and mouth curved down sulkily, not stopping to correct the wrong notes as she jabbed at the keys without variation. When finally she stopped, Inge heard Ma say in a voice with no expression, “That’s lovely, Chantel.” To Inge she said later, “I save my energy for the ones who actually want to learn.” The ones who didn’t, Ma said, would soon move on to torture some other poor teacher on the violin or, if their parents had any sense, quit music and try a sport. “Or anything else.”

In between teaching, Ma took on part-time jobs. Sometimes when she didn’t have enough pupils or work she got food vouchers from the Health Department. It wasn’t much, less than a hundred rand a week. Ouma Estelle brought groceries when she could, though she was a pensioner and didn’t have a lot of money either. Ma said the money Pa sent was next to nothing. Earlier that year Ma had done a secretarial course and learned short-hand. She showed Inge the squiggles and marks, and Inge taught them to her friend Emily so they could write secret letters to each other.

Emily’s house was just a few blocks away, on the other side of the railway line, which might have been on the other side of the world. The Bickford-Smiths lived in a double-story house painted light blue, with white shutters, an attic room and a treehouse in the garden. In Emily’s bedroom there were framed Beatrix Potter illustrations on the walls.

Mrs Bickford-Smith asked Inge a lot of questions about Ma, who she called Mrs Joubert (which Ma hated, because she’d never been Mrs anyone). She wanted to know what Ma made for supper and whether she usually had wine at the table. Inge didn’t tell her they ate in front of the TV, or that Ma drank wine most nights and at lunch on weekends. Mrs Bickford-Smith didn’t work, and each day she picked up Emily at the school gate in her shiny new Range Rover that smelled of potpourri inside. On Sundays she cooked roast chicken or beef with gravy and peas and potatoes, and she baked real cakes and puddings from scratch, not a box.

Inge and Emily often got ready for ballet together, usually at Emily’s house but sometimes at Inge’s. While Ma put their hair in buns, a cigarette between her lips turning slowly to ash as she secured the nets with bobby pins, Inge and Emily watched Gummi Bears or Liewe Heksie on TV. Emily wanted to know why their TV was black and white. “Is it broken?” she asked. “No, we got it like that.” “It must be very old,” Emily said. She made Inge notice other things, too, like how most of what was in the house had once belonged to Ouma or came from second-hand shops. Emily pointed out that Ma didn’t actually cook. “Ready-meals don’t count,” she said when Inge showed her the boxes of frozen macaroni cheese and pizza in the freezer. It was Emily who made Inge see that she was the only one in their class who didn’t have a proper packed lunch, and who always took the bus home.

On days when Ma was at work, Inge would let herself in with the key she kept in a small purse around her neck along with her bus money. Sometimes she used the key when Ma was at home but still in bed. Inge called the days when Ma didn’t get up in the morning her darkroom days, which she spent lying in bed with the curtains closed, her blanket pulled up over her head, even when it was hot, and the room smelled stale and sour-sweet. Those days Ma didn’t want to talk, and Inge would stay out on the stoep or go next door.

At some point Ma’s friend Moyra would come over, bringing snacks, and Inge listened to them talking softly from the passage outside Ma’s room. Moyra was Ma’s best friend, and it was because of her that Ma had decided to move to Pine Street, just a few roads down from Moyra’s house. When Moyra visited she and Ma would sit in the back garden, under the tree with orange berries and small blue flowers, or at the kitchen table, drinking filter coffee and chain-smoking Benson & Hedges. Moyra dyed her hair different shades of red and wore lipsticks to match. She had a full figure, in Ma’s words, and very large breasts that were pointy because of her bra, which Inge had seen hanging on Moyra’s washing line, a beige version of Madonna’s. Moyra had trained to be an opera singer, and Ma said she was very talented, but she got stage fright and couldn’t perform anymore. Now she worked in a décor shop and sang in a choir on weekends. Her dream was to come up with an invention that she would patent, and which would make her a millionaire. That, or find a husband. “Too much trouble,” Ma said. “Stick to the invention.”

Inge learned a lot listening to their conversations, figuring out the code words they used for people like her father and his wife Ronel. Every few months Inge went to visit them at their home. Stiff, awkward teas with white-bread sarmies on floral plates, which Ronel seemed to be waiting for Inge to drop, perched on the edge of her seat ready to spring across the room and catch if she did. She was nervy as a racehorse, Ma said, and looked a bit like one too, Moyra added. But she was nice to Inge, giving her little gifts each time she saw her. Inge’s father was already married to Ronel when Ma met him at the after-party of a student concert at the Baxter Theatre, where he worked as a technician and she’d played Satie’s Gnossiennes, and they’d both drank too much champagne. “Can’t touch the stuff now,” Ma told Moyra. “Or play Satie.”

Ma’s darkroom days were often followed by a Big Idea. This could be a drastic haircut or deciding to paint the lounge walls blue. Once she made batik scarves, and for days the kitchen smelled of candle wax, paraffin and indigo dye. Another time it was papier-mâché bowls decoupaged in pictures of fruit which Inge tore out of Huis Genoot magazines. Sometimes they’d go on day trips, usually to the coast. That year’s trip was especially memorable because it was their last before they moved to the Transkei, and it followed one of Ma’s worst darkroom days, or spells, as Inge referred to the times Ma didn’t get up for several days in a row. Things had been so bad that Ouma Estelle had come to stay. Usually Ma didn’t like Ouma knowing about her darkroom days. Ouma had no patience for other people’s emotions, Ma said, and she was bossy. To Ouma, Ma’s darkroom days were just bad nerves. “Overdramatic,” was her assessment. “And otherwise. Always has been.” Later Inge wondered if Ma had taken the job in the Transkei just to get away from Ouma. Not that Ma ever needed a particular reason to do something, and once she’d made up her mind, that was that. She wouldn’t back down no matter what anyone said.

The morning Ouma left, Ma called school to say Inge was sick, then tossed their towels and swimsuits onto the back seat of her yellow Beetle. Inge sat with her elbows leaning on the open window, the wind against her sun-warmed arms, while Ma smoked and tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, quiet until they were out of the city and on the freeway. Then they sang along to Joni Mitchell and Johnny Clegg & Savuka on the radio and talked about all the places they’d like to visit one day, Morocco, Peru, Japan.

They drove past Ouma’s old house in Lakeside and onto Kalk Bay with its colourful harbour, stopping at Dalebrook tidal pool where they sat on the seawall, letting the waves push them over and under the water to swim with seaweed and little brown fish. After, they dried off on the rocks and looked out at the sparkling ocean beyond the pool and the mountains all around. Then they were back in the car, driving alongside shining sandstone slopes, the bright blue coast on their left, past Clovelly to Fish Hoek, where they stopped for lunch. Inge was happy Ma was herself again, picking purple sea-flowers which she braided into Inge’s hair, tossing slap-chips soaked in brown vinegar to the seagulls with their big yellow beaks and squealing like a child as she body-surfed, throwing herself into waves and tumbling onto the white shore. They gathered shells, built sandcastles and ate ice cream with caramel sauce that went hard a few seconds after it was poured.

The sun was at its peak as they headed towards Cape Point, the tip of the African continent (though, as Rose later discovered, its southernmost point was actually at Cape Agulhas). At Simon’s Town they saw a house with a For Sale sign. It was built high up on massive boulders. The terrace ended in a pool from where it looked like you could step straight into the sea. The front of the house was all glass, and inside you could see three floors up to the skylight. Almost everything was white, apart from a few large paintings of elephants. There was a dog with long platinum hair like Barbie’s, perfectly groomed, not like the dog in the What-a-Mess books. Ma loved looking at show houses and acting as if she seriously wanted to buy them. That day she definitely wasn’t fooling anybody. Inge saw the agent eyeing her salt-dry hair with petals and stalks still stuck in the tangles and frowning at Ma’s damp sarong and slip-slops. She smiled with strained politeness at Ma’s fake posh accent and her questions about mouldings and fixtures.

“And would your husband ...”

Ma gave the agent such a look she didn’t finish her sentence.

At another house, Ma got into a long conversation with the owner about her beautiful grand piano and ended up playing something for her. That evening, the woman called Ma to tell her about a job opportunity. A friend of a friend was on maternity leave, and the school was looking for a substitute piano teacher. The only slight snag was that the school was in Mthatha, Transkei. About a fifteen-hour drive from Cape Town. Probably longer in Ma’s Beetle, Mr Walsh said. He also said that the Transkei was an unrecognised homeland created by the South African government for people whose citizenships they’d taken away.

Moyra said Ma was running away from her problems again. Inge and Ma had moved several times over the years, but the Transkei was further than any place they’d been before. As usual, Ma made it sound like a big adventure. Inge wasn’t sure she wanted to leave though. They’d been in the house on Pine Street for nearly three years, which was longer than they’d lived anywhere. But then something happened that made Inge forget all about the move. She met the witch.