Dedication

For my mother, Mary

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

THANKS GO TO the following people, without whom the book would not exist.

Madeleine Milburn, for her unwavering support, brilliant advice and so much more. Many thanks also to the wonderful, talented team at the MM agency.

For their excellent guidance and supremely wise editorial input, and for steering the book toward the market with such passion and professionalism: Manpreet Grewal and the team at HQ; Jennifer Lambert and all at HarperCollins Canada; Chelsey Emmelhainz for her early input; Matt, Melissa, and the entire team at Crooked Lane Books.

To my first readers: Jennifer Usher, Mel Sellors, Chloë Kempton, Kitty Fordham, Alison Dunne, Mary Reddaway. Big kisses to all of you wonderful people. To Jenny Parsons, for medical advice and guidance. All omissions, mistakes, and examples of willful misrepresentation are my own.

To my supervisors at Bath Spa: Fay Weldon, CJ Skuse, and most especially Tracy Brain. Your input was invaluable: wise, crucial, and transformative.

To my children, who are the absolute best.

To Jonathan Golding, who is always there, ready to listen to all of my nonsense.

CHAPTER

1

She steals to the window, and looks at the sand,

And over the sand at the sea;

And her eyes are set in a stare;

And anon there breaks a sigh,

And anon there drops a tear,

From a sorrow-clouded eye,

And a heart sorrow-laden,

A long, long sigh;

For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden

And the gleam of her golden hair.

—Matthew Arnold, “The Forsaken Merman,”1849

NOW

Leonie

Friday, December 21

LEONIE PRESSES HER palm to the outside of the shop window. The glass is cold; the fat little star of her hand leaves an imprint in condensation when she pulls it away. She laughs and slaps her hand back on the window, stamping another and another, a bit like when she does potato printing at the kitchen table, the potatoes soon left aside in favor of dipping her hands straight in the paints. She concentrates on tracing the outlines of the handprints with a fingertip, before they fade away.

“Mamma,” she says. “Come look. Me do painting.”

Behind her, a handbag stands abandoned on the pavement. She turns around, toddles over, picks up the bag. She looks up and down the street, her whole body turning first one way, then the other. There is no one else there. The chill wind blows in her face, tightening the skin on her cheeks and almost toppling her, almost taking her pink bobble hat from her head. Two bobbles; like a teddy bear’s ears.

“Mamma?”