Cover

Title Page

Copyright

First published in Great Britain 2019

by Egmont UK Limited

The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

Text copyright © 2019 Aisha Bushby

The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted

First e-book edition 2019

ISBN 978 1 4052 9319 8

Ebook ISBN 978 1 4052 9320 4

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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Dedication

For Alfie,

Thank you for braving the world with me -- both real and imaginary.

Chapter 1

Mum always turns everything into a game. Even boring days out to the theatre.

‘When the play starts,’ Mum says, ‘count the number of times the cast say Rapunzel’s name. Apparently they say it seven times in the first seven minutes!’ She pauses, looking between me and my best friend Elle. We glance at each other and frown. ‘Seven!’ Mum repeats, like this should mean something to us. ‘The witching number?’ She looks disappointed. ‘Oh, never mind.’

I can’t help but laugh. Mum’s games don’t always make sense, because her brain works in mysterious ways.

We’re at a coffee shop next door to the theatre, having cake and hot chocolate while we wait to watch an afternoon performance of Rapunzel.

‘Fine, you think of a better game to play while we watch,’ she says, chucking her napkin at me, grinning.

‘We could just watch the play?’ I offer.

Mum snorts, shaking her head. ‘Boring.’

‘OK, fine.’ I think for a moment. ‘How about we count the number of times the cast says “hair”?’ I suggest. ‘Isn’t that what the story is about?’

It’s Mum’s turn to laugh. ‘Rapunzel isn’t about hair!’ she says. ‘I’ve never heard something so ridiculous. It’s about freedom, and independence, and exploring the world.’

While Mum talks, I look up a line from the story on my phone and read it out, smirking. ‘“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down thy hair.” You have to admit, Mum, it does seem to be about hair . . .’

‘Cheeky,’ Mum says, taking a sip of her coffee. ‘Anyway, what about you, Elle, what do you think we should count?’

Elle, who’s been watching us talk back and forth like a referee at a tennis match, chimes in. ‘We’ve been doing Shakespeare at school this year, and apparently whenever anyone performs Macbeth, it’s bad luck to say his name in the theatre before the play!’