Alice hastily gathered her belongings and headed east, back toward Kemp Town and the guesthouse. She walked briskly, inhaling the briny air, taking it down deep into her lungs and measuredly exhaling as she pictured oxygen working its way through her body to the baby’s, just like the diagrams had shown in the anatomy book. She felt another kick and had to stop walking as her baby wriggled into a new position, the skin across her belly growing taut again. She carried on, her hand inside her coat supporting the heavy curve as she smiled to herself. In only a matter of weeks she could walk along here with a pram and show her baby off, and she couldn’t wait—she’d be glad of any attention or conversation after her forced solitude. There had been the odd letter from her friend Penny that Ruth had forwarded, and some worrying updates from Ursula about how bad things were at Partridge and how they were trying to get on with her book, but Alice hadn’t replied to any of them. She wanted to stay in touch with friends and know the news from Partridge, but she didn’t trust herself to write back and not to say something that would give her away.

It was a direct walk along the promenade from the Angel, the statue that marked the boundary between Brighton and Hove, where grand Regency buildings gave way to wide Victorian avenues and homes. She ambled slowly, picturing Ruth getting off the train and navigating down Queens Road; Alice imagined bumping into her on the seafront or finding her back at the guesthouse, drinking tea and talking with Hope.

When Alice passed Regency Square, she noticed how some diners talked while others sat and read; everywhere she went now, many more people were reading books—in waiting rooms, at bus stops, and in shelters and cafés, losing themselves to other worlds. It reminded her of how she’d become obsessed with books.

She had been nine years old when she’d come home from school in tears after falling out with Penny, and her father had given her a copy of Heidi. Alice read it in one sitting, the candle flickering across the wall as she refused to let bedtime intrude on Heidi’s moving friendship with Clara. Her father was right; she and Penny became friends again after she shared the book, and she’d realized there must be a corresponding story for everyone, a book the reader knew had been written just for them. It became a challenge for her to find these stories, leaning against the cold stone wall of their local library, the hardback editions pressed open in her lap, featherlight pages fluttering beneath her fingertips.

Now the sight of people reading was just another source of frustration to her, because it reminded her of how much she missed her work.