‘People say that the Daughters of Stone stand here on our clifftop as a warning to those who sail these dangerous waters. If you close your eyes and listen very carefully, you might just be able to hear their sad, sweet, ghostly song . . .’

A sea mist must have risen as Pa was telling the story; tendrils of it seemed to be creeping across the cliff. I was aware of the four stones surrounding us, watching us. I could almost hear them breathing. My heart was thudding in my throat now. I heard a whispered song, as soft as the hiss of sea foam over pebbles, the swish of a sea breeze through a long white dress.

For my father and sister, the legend of the Wyrm and the Stones was just that – a legend, distant through the mists of centuries. But for me it was different. From the moment I first heard the story, I knew it was much, much more. I knew it in the chill of my bone marrow and the crawling of my skin. I knew that the ancient magic of our cliffs was real and that I was destined – somehow – to become part of the legend too.

Part One: Autumn 1939

Chapter 1

1

On the very first day of the war, Mags came home with a split lip. Her eye socket was swollen too and promised to ripen into a large, plum-coloured bruise. Her knuckles were red and grazed.

‘What happened, Mags?’ I gasped. ‘Was it one of the girls at school?’ But my sister ignored me, storming down the footpath and into the cottage through the kitchen door.

Mags is a fiery sort of person. Living with her is a bit like living with a half-tamed tornado, but for all her fierce temper she had never been in a proper fight before. Mutti made her sit down at the kitchen table. She gently bathed my sister’s eye, lip and knuckles with warm water and witch hazel.

I hovered just inside the door, watching.

‘Tell me who did this, please, Magda,’ my mother said.

‘It doesn’t really matter who did it,’ Mags muttered. ‘It could have been any of them. They were all saying the same thing.’

‘What? What were they saying?’

But Mags just drew in a long, shaky breath and would say nothing.

I could see Mutti’s eyes were brimming with tears. She blinked them back, wiped her hands on her apron and then got on with preparing dinner. She pushed her hair from her face with her forearm and quickly chopped an onion. I wondered if she really needed to chop an onion for dinner, or if she just wanted to have something to blame her tears on.

Pa took Mags outside into the darkening garden and I followed a little way behind. I picked up the watering can and made myself look busy tending the vegetables.