‘They had crisps.’

‘Well, you have brown potatoes and Mrs Mandrake’s salty butter. And you have a whole house of wonder. You don’t need crisps. Or special stationery. What is special stationery?’

‘Bright-coloured rubbers, scented pens, sparkly things . . .’

‘Oh the world does love a sparkly thing,’ she says darkly. ‘Until they see what lies beneath.’

‘What?’

‘We can ask Mrs Mandrake to bring you supplies if you need them,’ she says then. ‘I want happiness for you, Stella. I just didn’t think it would take this route.’ She exchanges a look with Peg and shakes her head. ‘Humans. Let’s hope they’re as good as you think they can be.’

‘Your grandfather was human, and he wasn’t so bad, was he?’

‘Hmph.’ She folds her arms. ‘Make a list of all these stuffins you think you need. And then chores. And an omelette for tea, with some of those lovely brown potatoes . . .’ Her voice drifts as her body pales into nothing. She doesn’t stay as long as she once did, back when I was smaller. She isn’t so solid. She’s wearing out.

One day, maybe she won’t come back at all.

I swallow hard and pull an old notebook towards me and start my list, and I think about tomorrow, and Mrs Mandrake’s visit on Saturday, and I fill my mind, and I pack my heart with all the sparkly things I can imagine, and Peg flutters about me, warm and full of song.

That night, the chores are easier. The chickens – Onion, Basil and Salt – seem pleased to see me; the carrots come out of the loose earth without a fight; and the silver wire that holds the boundary between our garden and the edge of the forest is a bright moonlit line, hung with charms and tatters of spells from generations past. I can touch them when I’m here. My parents, my grandparents, the reality they left behind. Paper they wrote on, folded and tucked into glass baubles, enchanted copper bells and tiny vials of blood and thistle-down, all collected by Nan and used to hide our house from the fae and the shadows that live in Winterspell.

I trail my fingers through it all and let my mind fill with who they were. My mother, the artist; my father, the mechanic. Fleeting images of them appear in my mind as I touch the essence they left behind: moving scenes of laughter and tears and dancing between endlessly tall trees. Splashing through the river, the drift of snowfall. Snatches of their lives before the Plaga, caught in tiny glass jars. My father had a plaited beard with copper strands that fell to his waist. My mother had pale hair that flew out like a starburst around her head.

‘I went to school today,’ I tell the moon, hoping that somehow my mother will know it. I recall my day, as if she can see straight back into me from wherever she is. Yanny, and Zara, and chaos and crisps.