There was a bird carved on Stella’s headstone—a swallow in flight—and her epitaph read, “Stella Maria Lyell, 1988–2009. Dance, then, wherever you may be.” I’d had my doubts about the wording—weren’t we allowed to assume she’d gone to heaven?—but Dad thought it was perfect, so I hadn’t argued.

I drummed my fingers on the coffee-cup lid and wondered what inscription I might earn when my time came. How about a little picture of a ship? And underneath it they could write: Freya Claire Lyell: She never rocked the boat.

Except, of course, I had rocked it—once, only once, five years ago—and the next thing I knew, my sister was dead.

The woman with the newspaper frowned, so I stopped drumming my fingers and opened my book. I did my best to read, but it was hard to keep my mind on anyone’s story other than my own.

December 1997

In my memory I’m six years old and the Christmas market is teeming. I want to go home, but we’re here to have fun, so I cling to Dad’s hand instead. Stella is nine and she doesn’t want to hold anyone’s hand. She glowers and wriggles, and every time Dad relaxes his grasp she slips from her woolly mitten.

Tom is with us. He’s often with us after school on a Thursday; I think it’s because his parents work late that day. Tom is eleven and sullen—or perhaps he’s just shy. When Dad dashes after Stella for the umpteenth time, shouting over his shoulder, “Tom! Look after Freya!” he snaps to attention. His gloom softens into seriousness and he takes hold of my hand.

Stella is hopping from stall to stall—from handmade soaps, to charcuterie, to cuckoo clocks, to artisan gin—and she wants to buy a bit of everything. I want to be ecstatic too, but I don’t know how. Mum is Gone, and I think we’d be better off at home, even though Mum won’t be there either.

Mum Gone is not what it sounds like; not simply a gap where Mum used to be. Mum Gone is a thing. It’s a black, silent snake that slithers everywhere and squeezes thickly around my heart. Everywhere I go the snake goes too, and I can’t shake it off. It turns nice things scary—even the brass band playing carols, and the reindeer lights on the town hall, and the gingerbread stall. Even the teddies with Santa hats. They’re only pretending to be cheerful and friendly.

We’ve all been given a ten-pound note, and Stella spends hers within the first few minutes. She buys a hairband with reindeer antlers, which go “Ho Ho Ho” when you press them, and a jar of shiny red things.

“What on earth . . . ?” Dad says, indicating the jar.

“They’re pretty!” Stella cries, but Dad laughs and shakes his head.

“They’re sweets,” she adds dubiously.

Dad is still shaking his head, so Stella reads the label out loud, her voice sinking as she goes along. “Spicy stuffed peppers . . . with feta cheese . . . in an olive oil and herb marinade.”