A situation in which she has no choice. In which she has to pay the ultimate price for her children’s freedom.

And she knows this.

And I cannot wait to see her gratitude.

Grappenhall Library, 2009

1

The boy – maybe ten years old, copper-coloured hair, dark, almost black eyes – put his hands on the desk.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Do you have all the Harry Potter books?’

‘Are you looking for one in particular?’ Annabelle asked.

‘The Order of the Phoenix,’ he said. ‘That’s where I’m up to.’

‘We do have it,’ Annabelle said. ‘We have quite a few copies, and they’re very popular, but I think one just came back in. If it did, it’ll be on the returns cart.’

‘Oh,’ the boy said. ‘Can I take it out?’

‘Yes. That’s what we’re here for.’

‘Do you know where the returns cart is?’

Annabelle smiled. ‘I do. Would you like me to show you?’

The boy nodded, and she walked to the end of the counter. There was a cart with all the returns on it, ready to be put back on the shelves. She ran her finger over the spines.

‘Here it is,’ she said. ‘Let’s check it out. Do you have your library card?’

The boy handed it to her. She scanned the barcode and called up his account. The list of books he had taken out covered the screen. Oscar – she read his name on the card – was an avid reader.

‘There you go,’ she said, and handed him the book and his library card. ‘Enjoy your reading, Oscar.’

2

It was her dream to see her book on the shelves of a library. Her dream, and the dream of thousands – tens of thousands – of other people who were writing novels and poems and plays.

It was a dream she did not think would ever come true. The first novel she had written, during her last year at Birmingham, was in a drawer in a desk in the house she and Matt were renting while he finished his legal training. It had been the most inspiring and the most dispiriting thing she had ever done. The feeling of holding a completed manuscript in her hand had been amazing. She had written a novel, one hundred thousand words that all, more or less, fitted together to make a coherent whole. Semi-coherent, at least. It had taken over a year and she had poured everything into it.

It was thrilling to hold it in her hands.

It was also incredibly depressing, because no one was ever going to read it. Never mind getting it published; not even her friends and family – not even Matt – were going to read it.