Her words are soft and sweet, and they draw me in – I want the warmth of their promise; but like Seb’s biscuits they could crumble at any moment.

They come and knock on the door and ask Mum whether I am here. They even commit a cursory search. I wait in my childhood hiding place: the big, dusty chest in the attic.

After they leave, Mum begs me to rest for a while, to stay till the next morning, to work out what we can do. I agree, to soothe her, and eventually she falls asleep, her hair tumbled on the pillow.

It feels like a long time since I picked up a pencil and drew. By the light of my bedside table lamp, I sit cross-legged on my bed and open Mel’s notebook, sniffing back tears and smoothing the paper before I make a mark. I need to think, and to think, I need to draw. Around the new story of the sisters which Mel received, I let the nib play. The sisters sit together, and their stories begin to dance.

At first the images jar and clang in discord like the two versions of their history the sisters share. At one side a father smiles and his fingers curl softly around the song the little girl sings. On the other side is a monstrous man who thunders until the tiny girl at the edge of the page quakes. As the sister’s stories grow and settle, harmony begins to be seen. I draw the branches of a tree behind their cottage – the boughs splay from the trunk as though making space from each other, and then the branches slowly draw close and eventually intertwine, until the pencil strokes become oceans of silken hair – black and pale blond, braided into wave after wave of perfectly united strands.

If the banner in the town square told one lie – that I am a killer – could it have told another? Is it possible that Mel is alive? There are a thousand reasons why it would be better for Mayor Longsight and Jack Minnow if Mel was dead. She knows so much about them both, too much. She has been their confidante and their equal – she is full of their secrets. Little wonder they wanted to silence her. But, until I see a body – unless I see the flayed skin of the storyteller – I won’t let it be true. It doesn’t change how things stand, because dead or alive, Mel would expect me to fight.

Wiping my tears, I tiptoe downstairs and collect Dad’s book from my bag. I put it on Mum’s bed, next to her pillow. He will be the first thing she sees when she wakes.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-three

I dream of untangling a ball of wool.

I dream of trying to find the right key on a ring of hundreds.

I dream of separating sugar from salt.