Like A Charm E-Book

Elle McNicoll

• Herausgeber: Knights Of
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Serie: Like a charm
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 305

Beschreibung

Edinburgh is a city filled with magical creatures. No one can see them... except Ramya Knox. Discover the new thrilling adventure from multi-award winner, Elle McNicoll As she is pulled into her family's world of secrets and spells, Ramya sets out to discover the truth about the Hidden Folk with only three words of warning from her grandfather: Beware the Sirens. Plunged into an adventure that will change everything, Ramya is about to learn that there is more to her powers than she ever imagined. Shortlisted for the Yoto Carnegie Medal for Writing

Leseprobe

Published by Knights Of

Knights Of Ltd, Registered Offices: 119 Marylebone Road, London, NW1 5PU

www.knightsof.media

First published 2022

001

Written by Elle McNicoll

Text copyright © Elle McNicoll, 2022

Cover art by © Kay Wilson, 2022

All rights reserved

The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

Typeset by Thy Bui

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. If you are reading this, thank you for buying our book.

A CIP catalogue record for this book will be available from the British Library

ISBN: PB: 9781913311278

ISBN: ebook: 9781913311551

ISBN: ibook: 9781913311841

Like A Charm

Elle McNicoll

Author's Note

The protagonist of this story has been diagnosed with Dyspraxia, more formally known as Developmental Co-ordination Disorder (DCD).

It affects motor skills and processing. I was diagnosed at the age of 9. It makes my handwriting messy but, like Ramya, no one has ever been allowed to tell me what I can or cannot do.

To Ruby. To Evie. To Cy. To Minnie. To Fern. To Cara. To the real Marley (told you I could make him a boy). To Genevieve.

To all of the children who have read my books and shown the world that girls like mine can be heroines. You proved them all wrong, not me.

Chapter One

Seven Years Ago

The first time I ever saw one of them was the night that I saw my grandfather for the last time.

It was a foggy night in Kensington, London. I was five and allowed to come downstairs to my parent’s annual Christmas party, on the condition that I kept quiet and made myself useful by handing out the devilled eggs. I was the only person there my age; the adults towered over me like trees holding cocktail glasses.

I was invisible to them all. They laughed at things that weren’t funny, and always laughed too loudly. Some would make cooing noises at me and tell me my dress was pretty. I didn’t choose it, I thought it was ugly, but I said nothing.

Our house in London was narrow. High, but slender. People were crammed inside, and the presence of the guests stole every bit of air in the house. A mess of sound and smell and mystery to me. Seeing my parents and their friends outside of the school playground was like entering a portal into another world. One of secret codes and a different language. One of false expressions. Sly glances and raised eyebrows. People would clink their glasses warmly, but their eyes were cool. Assessing.

Then I saw Grandpa. Like a fleck of gold underneath the dirt.

He was in the kitchen, washing his hands. I put my empty tray down on the table but ran towards him instead of picking up another.

“Ramya!”

At five, I was easy to lift up. I don’t remember every word he ever said to me, but I can remember how they reached inside of me and made everything better. I laughed as he swung me around.

“It’s late for you to be up,” he said, not sounding the least bit disapproving. “Spotted something new under the tree?”

I beamed. I knew he would bring presents.

“Where’s Granny?”

“Home with a cold,” he replied. “She didn’t want to travel.”

“Oh, ok.”

“She picked out some of your presents, though.”

“There’s more than one?”

Mum and Dad disapproved of multiple presents, but Grandpa didn’t think there was any other way.

I pulled on his dry hand, leaning my whole small body in the direction of the front room. Most people were through there, the largest room in the house. He let me move him down the hall to join the others.

“Oh!” I suddenly remembered. “My tray.”

I hurried back into the kitchen, smiling at the hired member of staff as they handed me a new silver plate of food to give out. I concentrated very hard, as I made my way back to the party, balancing the tray with care.

There was a crescendo of voices as I neared the room. I could hear Dad telling one of his work stories, over by the nine foot Christmas tree. Mum was talking to some of her friends about how she didn’t like the school I was going to. Grandpa sat by the grand piano, ignored by the rest of the room. One finger on the keys.

I joined him, placing my tray down on the lid of the shiny black instrument.

He smiled at me, our smile. The one that only I got. “Want to open a present early?”

I almost knocked the tray over in my excitement. “Yes!”

We both glanced over at Mum. Grandpa was her father. Every bit as soft, as she was hard. Every part understanding, when she was quick to anger. Every bit warm, when she was…

A parcel wrapped in gold, with a satin pink ribbon.

“Granny wrapped it,” he explained. “She’s the master.”

I laughed. Granny was dazzling and she liked everything to be beautiful and unique. I couldn’t rip her paper; I opened the present with such care and thought. Knowing that the end result would be worth it.

And it was.

A soft, woollen hat with a little nub in its middle. Baby pink, with little red hearts. The material was so gentle; I noticed it was the same kind that my grandparents’ jumpers were always made of.

“A hat,” I exclaimed, placing it on my head.

“A beret,” he corrected, reaching over to tilt it slightly, so that it sat upon my long dark hair at an angle. “Your Granny knows how smart you are. Now she wants you to be stylish.”

I grinned. They were the only ones who ever told me I was smart. Mum would get frustrated when I knocked things over, always muttering “useless”. Dad would just glance over, grimace, and then go back to his newspaper or his phone.

“I love it,” I told Grandpa.

I turned with delight and vigour to grab my tray, only to stop dead. A tall woman with alabaster skin and a shimmering dress stood behind me. She smiled down, with teeth that were too white.

Every hair on my body stood on end. Every goosebump rose. It was like a thousand sewing needles were pressing against my skin.

“Play me a song?” she asked, her voice like windchimes. Only, it wasn’t really a question at all. She wasn’t asking.

I continued to stare up at her.

Something flickered in her face. Like a ripple.

“Play me something,” she repeated. A little more weight in her voice.

I still couldn't move. I was frozen. I simply stared up, feeling the urge to run.

Suddenly, Grandpa moved behind me. He settled himself upon the piano stool and began to play. As the music began, the woman settled a little. Her mouth turned up into a smile.

Then she opened her mouth. And sang.

I tore my eyes from her to look around the room. Everyone had stopped their conversation. Their gazes were all pinned to the woman, like a dog watching its master. She was singing a Christmas carol. In front of a fire, by a piano, to a room full of attentive listeners at a party. There was nothing unusual or untoward about any of it.

To them. To everyone else in the room. To me, something I couldn’t name had happened. Something horrifying.

As she sang ‘O Come, O Come’, her voice so pure and perfect, everyone seemed to move closer.

And I dropped my tray.

The sound of the silver crashing against the newly varnished floor was abrasive and shocking. Everyone started, including the woman. Grandpa stopped playing.

I stared back at the woman. Defiantly.

The smile was completely gone from her face this time. She opened her mouth to say something when—

“Ramya!”

Mum appeared, pushing through the crowd. She grabbed my elbow.

“Sorry about that,” she apologised to the woman profusely. “She’s very clumsy. Way past her bedtime.”

I thought about resisting as she began to walk me out of the room, but I was relieved to be going. I didn’t want to be near that woman. I didn’t want her in my house. I didn’t want her near my family.

Mum marched me upstairs and into my room. She was angry, I could tell. She hauled open a drawer and pulled out some fresh pyjamas, before throwing them down on the bed.

“Get into these, brush your teeth and then you’re going to come down and apologise to Portia.”

“No.”

She looked up in astonishment. “Excuse me?”

“No.”

Dad appeared in the doorway, always the peacekeeper. He had heard the last part of the conversation.

“Come on, Rams,” he said, his accent English. Not Scottish, like Mum’s and Grandpa’s. “Accidents happen but you need to come and say goodnight.”

“No.”

They were both completely flabbergasted. They looked at one another in disbelief.

“I beg your pardon,” Mum murmured, her voice dangerously quiet.

“Leave the girl be.”

We all turned to see Grandpa. He had his coat and hat on, like he was ready to go home.

“Dad,” Mum’s voice was clipped and tight. “Go back downstairs, this is a family matter.”

“Yes, and I’m family,” Grandpa told her sternly. “Go back to your guests and stop snarling at the poor thing. She’s too wee to be at one of your soirées anyway.”

Mum obeyed him, shooting me one last glare as Dad followed behind her. I could hear them muttering about my “cheek” as they went back down to the party.

I suddenly felt the urge to cry.

“Now, now,” Grandpa knelt in front of me and handed me a handkerchief from his woollen coat pocket. I examined it with a slightly trembling hand. It was white, with thistles embroidered on it. Each thistle had a letter. J, I, L, C and O.

“James for me,” he said, reading my mind. “Isabelle for your grandmother. Leanna for your mum’s older sister.”

“Cassandra for Mum,” I said softly.

“Exactly so. And Opal for your youngest aunt.”

My aunt. I had met Aunt Leanna a couple of times over the phone. Her son was my age. She was bubbly and laughed a lot.

I had never met Aunt Opal.

“Your grandfather’s favourite,” Mum always said, perhaps a little bitterly.

I wiped my eyes with the handkerchief and handed it back.

Grandpa stared down at it for a moment. “Leanna sees the very best in people, your cousin is just like her. Your mother always sees the very worst. Your Aunt Opal sees people for exactly what they are.”

He looked around the room and a decision crossed his face.

“Ramya, what did you notice about that woman?”

My head shot up. I gaped at him. His face was completely serious, but his eyes were kind.

“Oh, yes,” he said gently. “You noticed something, didn’t you?”

Noticed wasn't the correct word, though. “I felt something.”

“What did you feel?”

I was young then. I couldn’t articulate what it was. I couldn’t tell him that I just knew something was wrong the moment I heard her speak.

“I was scared.”

He nodded. Listening to me. Taking me seriously. “But you didn’t do what she wanted.”

“What?”

“She asked you to play something. And you didn’t.”

I was confused. I tried to shake the confusion out of my head. “I don’t understand.”

“She asked you twice and you didn’t even think of doing it, did you?”

He isn’t telling me off. He’s encouraging me. “No.”

He barks out a laugh and hugs me. “Brave girl. Clever girl.”

“I don’t understand,” I repeated.

“I know. I know you don’t, pet. It’s all okay. I want you to remember something: you belong at home. It’s too easy to hide in this big city, too easy to vanish into the smoke..”

“Home is here?”

“No, home is in Scotland. Someone with your gifts—”

“I don’t have gifts,” I said quietly, confused.

“It is a gift to look a command in the face and be able to tell the commander ‘no’. Which is what you did tonight.”

I wrinkled my nose. “I tell people ‘no’ all the time.”

He positioned the beret once more, smiling at me in a way that made all my fears vanish. “Ramya, something is coming. Something is brewing, I can feel it every day as I walk in the street. Every time I turn on a television. Every time I open a newspaper. I feel it, and most people are too numb to notice. But not you. I knew it. You’re special. You’re just like—”

“So sorry to interrupt.”

We both leapt to our feet. The strange woman stood in the doorway, her smile serene but her eyes very sharp. Mum and Dad stood behind her.

“Portia has kindly come up to hear your apology, Ramya,” Dad said pointedly. “So, come on. Let’s hear it.”

To this day, I don’t know what part of me told me to do it. But I looked the woman right in the face and said, “I’m not sorry.”

Portia’s smile froze in place. Mum and Dad both made noises of horror. Mum strode into the room and grabbed me by the wrist.

“Apologise,” she snapped, her mouth drawn tight and her eyes almost bulging in rage.

“No.”

Portia let out a little gasp. Dad closed his eyes.

“That’s it,” Mum snapped. “Get into bed. No privileges for you until next year, Ramya. Do you hear me?”

I nodded, never taking my eyes away from the tall woman in the doorway. She stared back. She looked a little fascinated, as if I were something truly unexpected.

Mum barked at Grandpa to leave the room before he could say another word. They all made their way downstairs once more, Dad promising that this would be discussed in the morning. Portia was the last to leave, a cool smile on her lips as she finally turned away. I was left alone in the dark.

I lay in bed for an hour, listening to the guests as their voices faded away. One by one, they left. I heard the door close each time. I could tell when Portia was leaving because I could hear Mum and Dad apologising once more. Telling her that I was not normally this rude. That I was still learning how to be around people. That they were humiliated.

Then, once she was gone, the shouting began.

Mum was shouting. Grandpa was raising his voice. Dad was wearily trying to calm everything down.

I slipped out of bed and scurried across the landing, sitting halfway down the stairs, my face pressed between two pillars beneath the banister.

“I told you not to bring those stupid tales into this house,” Mum snapped. “I’m sick of hearing about it. You’re not poisoning Ramya with it.”

“Cass, she is lucky. You’re lucky. Don’t you see, she isn’t like any of us.”

“Yes, thank you for that, I’m well aware.” Mum’s voice was frenzied and exhausted. “We’re being dragged into her Early Years class every other week to hear all about how unlike other people she is. Do you know she can’t even hold a pen yet?”

I flinched.

“That’s not important,” Grandpa replied softly. “She’s got something better than all of those other children. She’s the reason we might actually have a fighting chance. Don’t waste this child’s life with silly ideas about ‘normal’, when she has something—”

“Oh, Dad, shut up,” Mum’s voice was fragile, like she was about to cry. “Just stop. Get out. Get out and don’t send cards. Don’t call. Don’t come around here anymore. I’m done. I’m through. I can’t do this all over again. Get out and don’t come back.”

There was a horrible silence. I waited for Mum to immediately take it back, to say she was sorry, but she didn’t. Grandpa turned to go.

“No!” I screamed, running down to the bottom of the stairs and launching myself at him. Holding on tight. “Don’t leave.”

“Get back upstairs,” Mum said sharply. “Now.”

I glared at her through tears and tightened my grip.

“It’s okay, pet,” Grandpa said quietly, pressing his rough hand against my ear. “It’s all going to be fine.”

I suddenly felt short of breath. As if my body had been hit by something sharp.

“Don’t go.”

“I have to, but only for now. It’s a small sacrifice for the time being, but I’ll see you again.”

“No,” Mum spoke softly. “For good.”

I watched in stunned horror, as Grandpa cast her one last look before leaving. I had never seen any adult look so sad. I watched him walk out of our heavy front door, as if I were watching a play. Actors. Not my family, none of this could really be happening.

But it became too real when I heard the car start. When I could hear it driving away.

I ran. Out of the front door and onto the black road. The only lights I could see now were the streetlamps. I felt my whole jaw shake and my lungs hurt, as I watched the car turn the corner.

“Come back!” I yelled from the middle of the road. I didn’t care about the other townhouses. “Come back! Please!”

I started to run, trying to follow the car. But it was gone. Before I could even make it ten steps, he was gone.

“No,” I howled. The despair that had descended upon our house was pulsing through me. “Don’t leave me here!”

It was quiet. The only sound was me, crying.

“Get inside now,” Dad barked from the stoop of our house. They meant business if he was the oneshouting now.

I turned to go inside. And I saw her. Standing where Dad could not see, illuminated under a streetlamp.

That woman. Portia.

She smiled. A cruel, knowing smile.

My chest was heaving. With misery and now rage.

Then it started to rain. And she slipped away.

I stood alone in the middle of the road as the water came down. Rain landing on my face and mixing with the tears.

That was seven years ago now. It was the last time I ever saw my grandfather.

Chapter Two

Seven Years On

“Ramya? Ramya!”

My eyes are closed. I can hear my name being called. But I’m inside my own memory. Remembering that dark road and the car. And her.

“Ramya Knox, come down from there, this minute!”

My eyes shoot open.

I’m not five years old anymore. I’m not in London anymore. I’m barely even that girl anymore.

Instead, I’m in Edinburgh. At my new school. Sitting on top of the bike shed.

“Hello, Mr Ishmael,” I call down, smiling innocently. “Just eating my lunch.”

Mr Ishmael, my Head of Year, looks up at me in terror. He’s a younger teacher. The kind who makes decent jokes and knows about the latest internet drama. He isn’t laughing now though, he looks horrified.

“Come down before you break your neck!”

I snort, swinging my legs as they dangle over the edge of the flat roof. “It’s only five feet high, Mr Ishmael.”

“Nevertheless. Come on. Down.”

I shove the last piece of my sandwich into my mouth. “I’m allowed to eat lunch, sir.”

“Yes. On the ground. And you’ve had more than enough time. Come on, we’re late.”

No ‘we’ about it. He means me. I’m late. Except I’m not. I had no intention of going at all.

“Ramya.” His voice is soft now. Empathetic. It grates on me. “We can talk all about it. But you need to get down, pal.”

I swallow my bite, then use my hands to launch myself onto the playground. I bend my knees when I land, and I can hear his breath catch.

“Thank you,” he says, releasing a sigh. He startsto escort me across the playground, towards the main building.

“Let’s have a quick chat before you head toMrs Burns.”

I roll my eyes, but follow him down the winding school corridor towards his office. This is not just a new school for me, it’s also senior school. It’s grey. It’s metallic. The walls and floors are all designed so that any mess can be wiped clean instantly. There is hardly any colour. No artwork on the walls. Just lots of lockers and trophy cabinets.

We reach his office, and he opens the door for me. I saunter inside and collapse into the chair opposite his.

I’m very familiar with the inside of Mr Ishmael’s office. It’s only been a couple of months since I started.

“All right,” he says, settling across from me and smiling genially. “What’s going on?”

I drum my fingers against the armrests of the chair. “Nothing.”

“Ramya.” His voice is gratingly understanding. “You know you’re late for your workshop. You skipped last week’s altogether.”

I sniff. So, they did notice.

“I just didn’t feel like it today.”

“Uh huh.”

“Look, I’m not sure what the purpose of getting me to write the same thing over and over is, exactly.”

“The occupational therapist said you need to practice with the tools she recommended.”

“My hands hurt and it’s boring. And why do I have to miss my whole lunch break once a week because I’m dyspraxic, but the G and T kids get to go to their workshops during lessons?”

Gifted and Talented. An insufferable little bunch.

“You could be in G and T, Ramya,” Mr Ishmael says tiredly. “Easily. You’re one of the smartest students I’ve seen in some time.”

He’s looking at his glasses, as he wipes the lenses clean. I’m glad, I don’t want him looking at me. I don’t want him to see my reaction to that admission.

“I don’t like those workshops, Mr Ishmael,” I say honestly. “I don’t like how they make me feel. They make me feel…”

Less than. Different.

“It’s just to help you improve your motor skills,” he says gently. “To get that handwriting a bit neater.”

I meet his gaze with defiance. “Everyone uses computers once they leave school.”

“I’ve done my homework on you,” he says, smiling broadly. “You were a champion swimmer at your old school.”

“Yes,” I reply, flatly. “It had a swimming pool.”

I had to work twice as hard to master the strokes but, once I had them down, I could outperform anyone.

“But your teachers said you got quieter and quieter as primary school went on.”

“Hmm,” I muse. “Could that have something to do with the fact that teachers are always telling us to shut up?”

“Don’t say ‘shut up’, please.”

I glare. “I was in the debating club. Did they tell you that?”

I was. Before I was asked to leave. The word “merciless” was bandied about, in regard to my rebuttal.

I’ve never been overly social. Go to school. Head down. Ignore whatever drama is going on. Go straight home. Do homework. Watch films. Go to bed.

I don’t like people. I don’t like company that isn’t my own. It baffles me; why does this school find that so troubling? I’m not spraying graffiti on the walls or ripping pages out of library books. So, I wish they would just leave me alone.

Edinburgh is not like London. In London, you’re encouraged to mind your own business. Mum and Dad were always good about keeping my interactions with other people to a minimum, but that’s harder for them now that we live here. It’s much friendlier here. People ask you questions and remember your name.

Also, now that my parents have found their dream job together, I’m expected to be much more independent. Scooting to and from school, no matter the weather.

It’s small for a city. More like a really big village.

I look back to Mr Ishmael, who is taking a sip of water.

“We just know that a little extra support with this transition wouldn't go amiss. You’re in a few lower sets at the moment, but I know you can move up, Ramya. I know it. I don’t know why you hide your ability, but we can help you get there. We’ve got some great new staff members joining us this term. One’s a baroness.”

“Whoopee.”

“She’s worked with a lot of SEND departments before. She might have some great insights.”

He doesn’t get it. He thinks it’s just about motivation. About believing in myself. He doesn’t understand that it would take an entire rewiring and restructuring of the way this school is run for me to actually feel supported. I know I’m made just fine. They just need a bit of time to realise that as well.

“Having a learning difficulty is nothing to be ashamed of,” he says agreeably.

I bite the inside of my cheek. “I know that.”

“Lots of brilliant people had to face challenges when they were your age.”

If he talks about Einstein being dyslexic, I won’t be responsible for my actions. He’s a good teacher. One of the best I’ve had. He genuinely cares, I can tell by the dark circles and the way he always rubs his neck. He stays late to mark work and check on the after-school club. He’s usually the first one here and the last to leave.

But he doesn’t know what this feels like. To remember a million facts but find it hard to concentrate on the boring ones they want you to recite. To know a faster way of solving the problem that the teacher is describing, only to then be told you’re not “doing it properly”.

Not to mention the absolute humiliation ritual thatis P.E.

“Can I take you along to Mrs Burns then?” heasks softly.

My shoulders drop. It’s not a battle I feel likefighting today.

“Yes,” I murmur.

We move through the corridors, where the other students are screeching and hooting. The sound of people’s bodies slamming excitedly into lockers is an irritant. Lucy and her gang are all sitting against the radiators, surveying their savannah, and watching forthe school hallway equivalent of a particularlyvulnerable gazelle.

It will never be me. I’ve been there. Been the gazelle of the school hallway, back in London. If anyone tries it here, they’ll get a kick. The kind that incapacitates a lion and sends a message to its pride.

I convey this exact thought through a look. Lucy sees it and gives an almost imperceptible nod.

She knows not to bother me. Everyone does. I don’t bother them and they’ll regret it if they bother me. Lucy and her gang have a few victims they like to torment and I stay out of it.

I’m not about saving people. No one tried to save me.

The air feels meaner these days. I can’t explain it. I don’t particularly care to. A few bullies have taken things too far. A few children have moved to another school. There just seems to be a nastiness creeping around, like a gas you cannot smell.

We reach Mrs Burns’ room and Mr Ishmael puts on a massive smile.

“Afternoon, Miss. Got a latecomer here for you.”

The other members of the workshop are all sat around a table, and they glance up in surprise at our arrival. Mrs Burns looks slightly nervous.

“Oh, Ramya,” she says faintly. “Good. Comein, then.”

I slump into the only available chair and glance around at the others.

All boys.

I feel a tinge of shame. No other girl’s handwriting is considered as messy as mine. I know I shouldn’t care; I know it’s not important, but it needles at me.

“All right, Ramya, here’s your practice book,” Mrs Burns says, sliding a workbook over to me. I flip it open, defeated. It’s similar to what the occupational therapist made me do in the hospital. Lots of writing and “draw this shape as accurately as you can”.

I glance longingly at the clock on the wall.

Mrs Burns sips from a tepid looking glass of water while we work in silence. Each time I press the pen to paper, I feel a pinch of frustration. This is boring. This is dull. This is sucking something out of me, something that I can’t name.

School feels like climbing up a really steep hill. Each time I reach to grab a patch of crag or a rock, desperate to haul myself further up, someone appears to tell me that I’m doing it wrong. They don’t help or offer a suggestion, they just tell me that I’ll never make it to the top of the hill if I carry on like that. The more I push and climb, the more I struggle and grasp and gasp, the more disapproving the faces become.

It makes me want to let go. I might as well fall to the bottom of the mountain rather than keep climbing. I sometimes think they don’t want me to reach the top.

I loved the idea of school once. Getting all my stationery together in a new bag. A homework diary. Colourful highlighters. Putting an ordered toolbox together to face a new year.

The novelty wore off when they all hated how I held those pens. How I wrote on the paper.

“Ramya,” Mrs Burns stage-whispers at me from across the table. “I think your hat is lovely but it’s not uniform, sweets.”

She’s not being unkind. She’s just doing her job. But I clench my jaw. I don’t touch my beret.

“Ramya,” she repeats, gently. “Let’s take off thehat, please.”

I press my pen down so heavily, it creates a dark crater of ink on the workbook.

Suddenly, Mrs Burns’ glass of water shatters.

She shrieks and we all jump. I stare at the fractured mess of glass, and the water that has spilled all overthe table.

“Goodness,” Mrs Burns breathes, fanning herself with her undone sleeve. “Gave myself a real fright there. Frankie, can you grab me a paper towel, please?”

Frankie jumps to obey but I keep staring at the glass.

She wasn’t holding it when it broke. I know she wasn’t.

We move our workbooks, as Mrs Burns accepts a cloth from Frankie and begins to clean up the mess. I’m about to remove my beret as a peace offering, when a sharp knock on the door interrupts us.

“Now what?” sighs Mrs Burns before calling in a louder voice, “Come in!”

A nervous looking sixth former pokes their head through the door. “Ramya Knox in here, Miss?”

Mrs Burns gestures to me and I nod. “That’s me.”

“They need you to come to the office,” the sixth former says, avoiding my gaze.

“Okay,” I say slowly. I move to leave the room, but he nods towards my bag.

“You won’t be coming back.”

He doesn’t say it in an ominous way. He says it carefully. But it sends tremors through me and dries up my throat. I snatch my bag and fix my beret on my head, leaving the SEND room without a backwards glance.

I go over every negative scenario in my head as I walk to the office, in the reception area of the school. Expulsion? For sitting on the roof of the bike shed? For refusing to take off my beret?

However, as I reach the front desk, all of that flies out of my mind. I can taste the tension in the room. My eyes shoot to the large fish tank over by the seating area.

Where I notice a boy in my year. He’s sitting on the guest sofa with his head between his legs.

Marley. My cousin.

I look to Mrs Hudson, the receptionist. She’s looking at me with an expression that makes me want to turn and run away.

“What is it?” I say, almost inaudibly. “What’s wrong?”

“Ramya,” she leans close to me, and I want to snatch the landline out of her hands and hurl it against the wall. “Your Aunt Leanna has called us to say you and Marley need to be sent home.”

I’m biting my lip so hard; it’s going to bleed. “Why?”

Her eyes are wide, and I can tell without ever having spoken to her before that she hates giving bad news. That it’s not something she’s ever anticipated having to do in this job.

“Your grandfather has passed away.”

By the time she says the third word, my head is all the way down and I’m trying to focus on the floor. It’s blurry. Blue carpet. With little ridges. I can feel someone touching me, saying soothing words but I don’t know what they are.

“Go and sit with Marley until your family get here,” Mrs Hudson says, physically steering me towards the large blue sofa that’s for visitors.

I fall down next to my doubled-over cousin andstare ahead.

Mrs Hudson is speaking hurriedly on the phone to someone. Another member of the support staff jogs in and grabs a post-it note from her. She throws us a pitying look, before jogging out again.

There is a moment of awareness. When I fully recognise that the person beside me is family. Thatwe’re related.

But we’ve never spoken before. So, we don’t start now.

Chapter Three

Black Beret

My going to the funeral started a massive argument. Mum initially forbade it. She said I was too young. That funeral services aren’t for children and that I hardly knew him anyway. That made me scream. Then she screamed. Then Dad stepped in and told us both to calm down, and so we both screamed at him. For behaving as though being calm is somehow the right thing to be.

At a time like this.

I ended up begging. So, Mum relented. She said she couldn’t go. She wouldn’t. But she would drop me off.

“How is she getting home?” Dad asks as we pull up to the cemetery.

It’s a Saturday in October. The place is ready to turn to tawny. It’s peaceful.

“I’ve got my bus pass,” I answer before Mum can speak. “I’m getting the 45 to town and then walking.”

We live in the New Town. It’s pretty old, to be fair. But not as old as the Old Town, which is ancient and right beneath the castle.

It doesn’t take too long to learn this city.

“Fine,” Mum says, sniffing and putting the handbrake on. “Do you need money?”

“No,” I say curtly. “See you later.”

I can feel them watching me as I walk down the small mound, before joining the path towards the building. I don’t know what to call it.

I can hear gentle organ music as I approach, and someone is standing at the door. Someone I don’t recognise.

I turn around and watch Mum and Dad pull off and drive away. They didn’t even stay to watch me go in.

I think the person at the door is the funeral director. He’s holding programmes.

“Are you family?” he asks delicately.

I don’t know why I hesitate for so long. But I eventually nod. “Yes.”

“You can sit in one of the pews at the front,” he tells me, handing me a programme. A crisp, beige card with gold foil print. I move down the aisle of the building and sit in the front row. There is currently no other family here. A few elderly people pepper the pews behind me, all looking very soberly at their programmes.

I can feel them enter the room before I actuallysee them.

I stare ahead for a moment, listening to the sound of heels on the funeral home floor. Then I turn.

My grandmother. Isabelle Stewart-Napier. She’s tall and willowy, with long silver hair. It sits smoothly over her right shoulder. A pearl choker, a smartly fitted black jacket, and a matching skirt. She has her arm around my Aunt Leanna. Not so tall. Not as lean. But warm, with sunny, yellow hair. Her face is red and splotchy from tears.

Marley is on Aunt Leanna’s other side. In a littleblack suit.

None of them have noticed me, as they move to sit in the front pew on the other side of the aisle. Gran is whispering to a distressed Aunt Leanna. Marley is fidgeting with his buttons.