She nods. “Exactly what I told myself. I didn’t even read it. I just shut the notebook, decided I’d had a strange dream. The mayor had just been stabbed – there was no time to dwell on it. But last night, it happened again.”

“Coinciding with Mayor Longsight’s latest stunt,” I say slowly.

“And so I read it,” she said quietly. “It’s the same story, written out twice. Word for word identical.” Mel’s face is pale, and her eyes beg me to believe her. “I wouldn’t make something like this up, Leora.”

Mel has more to lose than to gain by telling me this. This is the kind of thing that could discredit her and cause people to doubt her skill and authority. It could make her a laughing stock. If anyone found out, then Mayor Longsight might dismiss her to ensure her voice no longer carried weight in the life and teaching of Saintstone. It would be so much easier for her to keep this quiet. Why should she trust me?

“I believe you,” I say and immediately something softens between us. We are in this together now, not mentor and student but allies. Mel leans forward and grasps my hand.

“Thank you.” She comes to sit next to me, bringing the notebook with her. “I’m scared,” she murmurs. “But this is a message – and I think that there is light here,” she taps the notebook, “and hope too.”

“What is the story about?” I ask.

“I hoped you would ask.” She smiles shyly. “Would you let me read it to you?”

Chapter Sixteen

The Sisters

Neither of them could say what had made them come, but here they both were. Moriah and Belia – sisters united by blood and divided by ink – had not seen one another for many years. Belia’s hair was salt- and-pepper grey and Moriah’s rosebud lips were bracketed by lines.

At first each twin thought they had walked into a trap, a trick of the other’s making. They circled the crumbling cottage, looking for danger, but all they found were thorns and spiders. Belia and Moriah met at the front door, the weathered entrance to the house where they had grown up, and, eyeing one another guardedly, they each placed a hand to the door and pushed. The swollen wood and rusting hinges groaned as they shifted and, for the first time in many decades, light shone into the cottage.

Belia built a fire and collected clean water from the old well. Moriah washed dust-encrusted cups and drew from her satchel a folded envelope of tea. As steam rose from the enamel kettle over the fire, the sisters sat and warmed their hands.

“We both left in a hurry.” Belia broke their silence. The women looked around at the house: a museum of their former lives. “You for marriage and me for survival.”

“You make me sound selfish,” Moriah complained. “I fell in love. Father would have been glad to see me so happy.”