Nothing spectacular, nothing fancy. Because when you wipe away all the layers of spit and polish, all anyone ever has are the relationships, the memories, they forge along the way.

Do you have any advice for aspiring authors out there, no matter how young or old?

Say yes to everything. Take the risks, regret only the things you don’t do, because mistakes are more important than success. You can’t write, you can’t connect with people if you haven’t any memories to draw on, no matter how painful they might be. You see, the things I remember most clearly from my life are those I wasn’t supposed to do, but I did them anyway.

Did any of those things involve men?

Aren’t all the best mistakes about love?

Have you been working on anything new?

There’s always something new. Another idea, another character, another story.

Is that the reason for this interview?

I haven’t always been so elusive, so reclusive, as it were, but rather my lifestyle has simply been a result of unfortunate circumstances. This interview is most likely to be my last and, to be completely honest, I no longer feel the need to hide behind the veil of my stories. I only hope that something good can come out of what Emily and I have created, that the end of one journey could perhaps mean the beginning of another.

Does this mean there’s some truth to the rumors about a new series, featuring a grown-up Ophelia?

There’s always an element of truth to every rumor. Let’s just say there is something, but I’m not yet certain it will ever be shared with the world.

You’re famous for leaving clues in all of your books. Is this another treasure trail, another puzzle, you want your readers to solve?

Well, that would be telling.

Catriona Robinson died peacefully at home last month, after a long battle with cancer. She is survived by her only granddaughter, Emily, who has remained unavailable for comment.

1

COCKATOO

Cacatuidae

Emily sat by the back door, sketchbook open on the kitchen table, waiting for something to happen.

The shadows on the lawn were slowly disappearing as the sun rose in the summer sky, and next door the church bell-ringers were warming up for their weekly practice. Everything was as it should be on a Monday morning in August, but Emily felt that there was a gap in the day, one which she was trying to figure out how to fill.

She was stuck, waiting for inspiration to strike, but even a second cup of tea and slice of lemon cake had done nothing to shift her focus back to the task in hand. A selection of inkpots stood next to the sink, ready for when Emily decided which colors to add to the picture of a cockatoo she had drawn over breakfast.

The problem was, the brief she had been given by her publisher was for a lifelike depiction of the bird, with no whimsy or magical elements, but whenever Emily looked at him (for he was most definitely a him, with such a proud crest on his head), she was struck by a desire to paint his feathers with all the colors of the rainbow. Her mind was misbehaving and kept going off on tangents, imagining the cockatoo being able to transform, much like a chameleon, whenever he needed to hide from whomever or whatever he was flying from.