I know that I am part of a story that is thousands of years old. In years to come, people will whisper the tale to their children – a tale about love and loyalty: the legend of the Last Daughter of Stone.

It is about a girl who was small and unnoticeable and frightened. A girl whose mother was locked away and whose father was lost at sea. A child who battled with monsters, braving the raging skies and the darkness of the night to protect her castle: Defender of the White Cliffs. Dragon Slayer. Daughter of Stone.

Now, when I write the name Petra Zimmermann Smith, it no longer feels several sizes too big for me. I find it is a name that fits me perfectly.

Epilogue

They are not interested in us any more. The enemy planes keep high, soaring above us here on the coast and heading inland instead. Yesterday, Grandpa Joe said that Hitler now seems to be less concerned with invading us, and more interested in bombing London into submission. It is very strange hearing the roar of the engines, and knowing that someone’s home is about to be destroyed – a shop, a pub, a whole street, reduced to smoke and rubble.

It is very nearly a year now since Dunkirk. Nearly a year since we lost Pa. I think about him every day, especially when I am alone up in the lantern room. Sometimes I talk to him, telling him all our news. I told him when Mutti was moved to a new internment camp on the Isle of Man – a nicer place, full of artists and musicians. I tell him the gossip from the village, or that Grandpa Joe is well and enjoying being a lighthouse keeper once more, or about how plump and bright-eyed Mags is these days. Sometimes I just listen to the warm echoes of Pa’s voice in my mind, as he tells me stories about shipwrecks and smugglers, mermaids and dragons. Sometimes – just for a second – I allow myself to believe that the tuneless whistling coming from the service room isn’t Grandpa Joe at all – it is actually Pa: he’s just downstairs, and he’ll come up to see me in a minute, and salute me in that silly way of his and call me First Mate. But I don’t let myself imagine that very often, because it makes the sea and the sky go all blurry, and my throat starts to hurt, and the pages of my sketchbook get spoilt with salt-water splodges.