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Dedication

For my George, the bravest of all of us

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The endlessly charming Isles of Lute rank high among Britain’s best-kept secrets, and once you’ve arrived, it’s hard to understand the reason for all that secrecy. Despite Lute’s murky reputation on the mainland, so far as this writer could tell, the greatest risk these isles pose to visitors is the temptation to chuck it all in and become a local yourself.

From the picture-perfect central village to the low-key, cheery welcome offered by the islanders, Lute appeals to bird-watchers, neo-pagans, and amateur historians alike—along with anyone wishing to escape the relentless dread of the news cycle. Come for ancient superstitions, stay for a well-poured pint at Dane’s Head pub and a peek at one of the last puffin nesting sites in southern England.

(Top tip: whatever rumors you may have heard about Lute, don’t bring them up to the locals. Any mention of “the Day” will result in a frosty reception and a

THREE DAYS BEFORE

The glare from the sea is pure white, too blinding to see any distance from the back door, even with my hand stretched above my eyes. All I can do is scream loudly enough to reach across the lawn.

“Charlie?!”

Everybody on the island can probably hear me. How undignified. How American.

Emma starts hollering in imitation. “Chaaaaarlieeee!”

Oh, that voice of hers—lovely, adorable, way too much for me right now. The pitch is so high, my brain feels like it’ll burst.

I crouch, squinting, and idly tickle her to get her to stop, but she keeps trying to screech again between fits of giggles. I draw her in, kiss one sticky cheek, and glance up past her tangled curls, worry needling me.

A drifting cloud lessens the glare, but I still don’t see Charlie. He’d have come at the sound of his name if he were safe and within earshot. He does like to wander but never far, and he always comes back. He stays in orbit.