Cover

Title Page

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Odin,
inspirer of poets; god of wisdom,
magic and sacrifice.

1

It started the day I fell from the tree at Mormor’s cabin in Norway. The day I became blind in one eye.

I’m going to write it all down here, no matter how crazy it makes me sound. If I have a daughter one day, she deserves to know the truth –

The truth.

Why couldn’t Mum have just told me? The thought is like a knot in my brain, and the more I pick, the tighter it gets. If I had known, I could have done something and no one would have died. If she had told me, the horror of these past few days might never have happened.

2

My stomach shrinks to a hard ball as we pull into Heathrow. The platform is heaving with people. Holding my rucksack in front of me, I grit my teeth and push my way through the crowd. As people brush past me I get flashes of their lives – their memories and emotions – but it happens so fast I can’t make sense of it.

My hands are sweaty as I pull my phone from my pocket. I check the time, then wish I hadn’t. Last check-in is in fifteen minutes. I can’t miss this flight.

A train pulls into the platform opposite and dozens of passengers spill out. Worried their clothes will touch me, I veer left and head for the escalator. A man passes me, coming up the other way, and for a horrible moment I think it’s Dad, but it’s just some other grey businessman.

Inside the departure hall people rush around me, dragging reluctant suitcases and even more reluctant children. The noise is like a swarm of bees, all wanting to sting me. It’s not just the hubbub of conversation. The air sparks and crackles – it’s like their clothes know I’m here, walking among them.

A wet-faced toddler wobbles in my direction, hands outstretched, closely followed by a tired-looking woman. I swerve but not quickly enough to avoid her brushing my arm. The woman had five miscarriages before she had her daughter. She’s pregnant again but lies awake at night, terrified she might lose this baby too. My chest aches with emptiness, her loss so sharp it makes me catch my breath. I walk away, then glance back at her red coat. I’ve been through Mum’s wardrobe enough times in the past few months to know it must be at least fifty-per-cent cashmere. Wool holds a person’s emotions but cashmere is different – it makes you feel them.

Spotting the familiar sign for Scandinavian Airlines, I head towards the check-in desk, then stumble over a suitcase and nearly go flying.

‘Hey! Watch it!’ a man snaps.

‘Sorry. I didn’t see. Sorry,’ I mumble.

‘It might help if you took off your sunglasses!’