‘Well it’s amazing. You’re so talented.’

‘Thank you.’ She feels a blush creeping up her neck. She’s never been good at accepting praise – something inside her always saying, ‘You don’t deserve it, Alice.’

‘Are you thinking of selling it?’

Alice shrugs. She hadn’t thought about it, but maybe it would be for the best. Her father never liked it, and she’s not sure she likes it herself. ‘I guess I could.’ She breaks off, wondering whether to tell Faith the whole story – about the photograph she received in the post that triggered her search for the piece in the first place, but decides against it. Amongst other things it’s late. She’s tired. ‘Could you take it with you?’ she says. ‘Put it in the shop window?’

‘Of course, happy to.’

Alice grabs her phone, and takes a photo of the clay replica of Flynn House. ‘I’ll put it on Instagram too. It may attract buyers.’ She hasn’t put anything on her Instagram profile since her father died, a clear reminder that her life has stood still for too long. But something inside her is buzzing, telling her it’s about to start moving again.

Faith picks up the sculpture, studies it with a look of fascination. ‘It really is amazing.’ She lifts her gaze, meets Alice’s eyes. ‘How much do you want on the price tag?’

Alice shrugs. She doesn’t know anymore.

‘Tell you what, leave it with me.’ Faith leans forward, kisses Alice’s cheek. ‘I promise I’ll get you a good price.’

*

Once Faith has gone, Alice uploads the picture of her sculpture onto her Instagram account:

A piece I made some time ago, available at ‘Alice’s Sculptures in Wonderland’ in Whitby #FlynnHouse #Gothic

Chapter 5

Late October 2019

Alice

There is a ventriloquist’s doll in the window of the antique shop down by Whitby Harbour. He sits between a glossy brown Beswick horse with a chipped hoof, and a mustard-yellow art-deco vase. The doll is dressed in a faded-black suit, a red bow tie attached to a yellowing shirt. His black hair is combed back from his frozen face. His shiny red lips want to talk.

As Alice passes by, she feels his stare. ‘He’s a bit freaky, isn’t he, Henry?’ she says, as though the dog understands what she’s saying. Despite a shiver down her spine, she’s drawn to the puppet. In fact, she has always had a bit of a thing for anything macabre. Her sculptures are always dark. She blames her father for that – his influence as her only role model.

‘Hey,’ she whispers, raising her hand in a wave, as though the puppet can hear her. She glances about to check nobody is listening. The street is quiet. ‘I’m as barking as you, Henry,’ she says to the dog, ruffling his glossy coat. ‘Did you see what I did there?’