Marion rubs the root of her nose. “Oh, sweetie,” she eventually says, her voice despondent. “If only it were so easy.” She takes a deep breath. “Madelyn’s special.”

“I know,” I say.

“No, you don’t. You don’t have a clue, Jon Snow.” She smiles and flicks open the book she was writing in earlier. She hands me a newspaper cutting, then continues. “Madelyn Zeidler is eleven years old. For the past seven years she has been studying dance with the Elizabeth Parker Dance Company in Oxford. She’s won sixteen prizes and a scholarship to the Royal Academy of Dance here in London. She’s performed in two music videos by the French singer Zaz, each of which has had more than a million views on YouTube. She can do flips and twists and hold her breath for two minutes underwater. But unfortunately . . .”

It’s this “unfortunately” that is described in the article. Seven months ago, the Zeidlers were traveling to Cornwall for a family holiday when one of their tires burst. Their motor home skidded onto the wrong side of the road, where it collided with a lorry transporting four show horses. Three horses, the driver, and almost everyone in the motor caravan died: Maddie’s mother, Pam; her father, Nick; her brother, Sebastian; her grandmother Catherine; Maddie’s aunt Sonia; and her uncle Nigel. Maddie and a mare called Dramatica were the only survivors.

MADDIE SOLE SURVIVOR AS FAMILY WIPED OUT, runs the headline. “Madelyn is all alone in the world, Samuel. She has no close relatives, not even an uncle, a cousin, or some shrill spinster aunt who wears oversize earrings. She’s a ward of the state.”

So the Queen takes care of her, I think, because any other thought makes my head hurt.

“At first, Maddie’s old dance teacher, Elizabeth Parker, came from Oxford a few times and showed Liz and the other physiotherapists here how to keep Maddie’s body moving. She showed us and Maddie videos of Maddie dancing, and noted the things Maddie does and doesn’t like.” She holds up the book. “But then Mrs. Parker tripped over a loose paving slab and broke her hip, so nobody visits her any longer.”

“Definitely not the Queen,” I mumble.

Marion has a pained expression on her face. “It’s Madelyn’s birthday in twenty days’ time. She’ll be twelve. Her first birthday without a family, surrounded by strangers in a place that isn’t her home.” Her voice quavers with compassion, full of sunny gold—a rare color in today’s world. “You see, Sam? She has nobody. And if you make friends with her—”

“Then I’m responsible for her.”

Marion’s blue eyes shine. “Yes. That’s correct, Sam. Can you do it? Do you want to? Are you genuinely willing to be responsible for someone you don’t know?”