To my lovely, patient husband, Liam, and my fab kids, Calum and Caitlin, for endless hugs, and also to Mum, Joan, Andy, Lori and all my family far and wide. Hugs to all my brilliant friends: Sheena, Helen, Fiona, Mary-Jane, Magi, Zarah, Jessie and the whole crew for keeping me sane… well, almost. Thanks to Catriona for helping with the website, organizing my life and being generally all-round fab; to Martyn for looking after the adding-up bits; and to Darley and his angels at the agency for… well, everything! Thanks to Amanda, the world’s sweetest, smartest and most patient editor; and to Sara, the world’s best cover-artist/illustrator; also to Adele, Francesca, Emily, Sophie, Sara, Kirsten, Tania, Sarah, Jennie and the whole Puffin team.

Special thanks to Ana, who started me dreaming and inspired the story, and to Polish girls Agatha, Klaudia and Kasia for helping with research; also to Andrew B. and Zosia for the same; and to Scratchy for the pyjamas-in-the-park story; and Sinead for the angel-boy one! Thanks to the two best cafes in the universe, for their inspiration and help with the cake research… Designs in Castle Douglas and Kitty’s Tearoom in New Galloway, which actually has a cake called Angel’s Wings… sigh.

Finally, thanks to my brilliant readers, whose feedback, support and enthusiasm make all the hard work worthwhile. You’re the best!

The last few bits and pieces are packed. Mum is running around the flat with a duster, trying to make it all perfect for the next tenants, and Kazia’s sitting on her suitcase hugging the old rabbit Gran knitted for her and trying not to cry.

I know how she feels. I’m excited about moving, but scared as well. I’ve tried so many times to picture this day, but now that it’s finally here I feel numb, shaky. My stomach is full of butterflies, some of them in hobnailed boots.

Gran and Grandad arrive to take us to the airport, and then it all moves too fast. The worst bit is saying goodbye. Gran and Grandad hug me so hard it feels like they are trying to memorize the shape of me in their arms, and both of them are crying fat, salty tears even while they are telling us to be brave, to think of the future, to make the most of the new life that’s waiting for us in Liverpool.

‘We’ll write, and phone, and email,’ I promise. ‘And we’ll visit, and you can come over at Christmas and visit us…’

‘Of course,’ Gran says, but I know they won’t. They will be with Uncle Zarek and Aunt Petra and the cousins this Christmas, in their big flat with the log fire crackling and the festive table always set with an extra place in case a lonely traveller should come knocking at the door.

By the time we get through security, Mum is crying too, and Kazia, and even I have to take a deep breath in and wipe the tears away. It is hard to leave Krakow, to leave Poland, and step into the unknown. It is hard to leave my family, my friends, the place I once called home.

It’s hard, but it’s what I’ve dreamt of too, for years.

Dad went away to work in Britain when I was nine. He could earn better money there, Mum explained, and one day, maybe soon, he would send for us. In Britain, we would have a better life. I didn’t know I needed a better life, back then. The one I had seemed good enough, until Dad went away.

I missed him. I’d sit by my bedroom window, looking out beyond the city rooftops to the big, blue sky where the swallows that nested in the eaves just above our apartment swooped and soared in the late summer sun. I wondered if there were swallows in Britain, if Dad could look up, as I did, and see them dip and glide through the blue.

I wished I could fly south for the winter, like the swallows, to a place where the sun always shone. I wished we could all be together again.

In Krakow, the winters are cold – thick snow lies on the ground for months at a time. The rooftops are dusted with white sugar-frosting, and you have to wear two pairs of socks inside your boots just to stop your toes from turning blue.

‘Does it snow in Britain?’ my little sister, Kazia, wanted to know, when Dad came home that first Christmas.

‘Sometimes,’ he told us. ‘But it’s not as cold as Krakow!’

‘Can