What I found reassuring, as I read the book again and again and again, was that unlike real life, which was scary and unpredictable, stories were safe. I knew where I was with a story. It had a beginning, a middle and an end, a clear direction. Real life, on the other hand, was like being lost in the woods with no map and no hope of finding the way home.

I knew that Angus, a motherless child like me, would find solace at the end of the story. He went on adventures with three little ghost children, who had died in the house in 1680. They had returned from the dead to help Angus learn how to live without his mum and they were helped on this quest by a strange glass blackbird who sat on the sideboard inside the house and mysteriously came to life whenever the children and Angus needed him. It sounds quite dark now, but back then I didn’t find anything scary about it. It was comforting.

I remember wishing that I had a bird like that, a protector who could take me to another world, even for just a few hours. However, I knew that could never happen so the world inside the book became the next best thing. I used to dream I’d been inside that house, walked along its corridors, climbed its wooden staircase, talked to Angus and the ghosts. In my grief, I convinced myself they were real.

This book had been the only light in my life during the dark weeks and months following her death. And now, just when I’m feeling despondent, it has found me again. It’s like Mum is watching me, telling me everything is going to be all right.

I hear footsteps outside the room. Dawn is bringing the group back in. I quickly slip the book into my bag and head out of the flat, heart thumping with exhilaration. Jamie taps my arm as I hurry down the steps. ‘Miss Adams, what were your thoughts?’ he says, gripping his clipboard tightly.

‘Oh, it will make a lovely home for someone,’ I say, feeling the reassuring bulk of the book in my bag. ‘But it’s not for me.’

11. Now

Angus looks up and sees that the sky is on fire. Golden snakes wriggle and squirm in the air before exploding into glittering rain. He stands for a moment, marvelling at the colours, the way the rockets look most beautiful in the final moments before they die.

Delicious smells fill the air. His mouth waters as he smells the heady scent of hotdogs with crisp fried onions, candyfloss, hot plum juice.

The garden is alive with people, most of them dressed in white; painted-faced men walk on stilts and ghost women breathe orange fire. Catherine wheels spin on the ancient wall while little spirits weave in and out of the maze, their eyes reflecting the lights in the sky.