been around for centuries. He did it without question or hesitation. It was effortless. When Leo had placed his hand over her heart, when he’d taken the light from her, when her final breath had etched the seventh star onto his skin, he’d never given it a second thought.
16th October
Sixteen days . . .
3:33 a.m.—Liyana
Liyana wakes, hair sticky with sweat, T-shirt clinging to her chest. Her heart is beating so fast that the tips of her fingers throb with the pulse, and her lungs hurt as if she’s burst to the surface, taking her first breath after holding it underwater for far too long.
She has just seen her sister.
11:11 a.m.—Goldie
“I’ve always loved gardens,” I say. We’re walking through the botanic gardens, over the rock gardens, towards the lake.
“Me too,” Leo says.
“Some of the trees are over five hundred years old.”
“Magnificent,” Leo says. “You know, Pliny the Younger wrote that gardens feel so spiritual because the trees used to be the temples of the gods and neither the trees nor the gods have forgotten this.”
“Who’s Pliny?” With anyone else I wouldn’t ask, I’d let the conversation continue, pretending by omission that I knew. I never feel embarrassed or ashamed by my ignorance with Leo.
“A clever Roman chap who wrote a lot of stuff,” Leo says. “When can I meet your brother?”
“What?”
“You heard.”
I’m silent. “I—I don’t know.”
“You’re protecting him from me?”
I shrug, unwilling to admit it. We reach the edge of the lake. Five flattened raised rocks, half submerged in the water, lie between us and the other bank.
“Why?” Leo asks.
“Not only from you,” I say. “From us.”
“I don’t understand.”
I shrug again. “Well, if we . . . I mean, I don’t want him to meet you and love you and . . .”
“And what?” Leo asks. “And then I leave and he never sees me again?”
I’m silent.
“Oh, Goldie,” Leo says, cupping my chin in his hands. “Of everything, of all the awful things that could possibly happen, I promise you, I swear, it won’t be that.”
I smile. Then frown. “What awful things?”
This time it’s Leo who’s silent.
2:34 p.m.—Bea
“I like that you think I’m nice. Or that you think I’ve got the potential to be nice,” Bea says. “You’re the first person who’s ever . . .”
“Thought so?”
Bea nods.
“Then it sounds like your mother’s as much of a bitch as mine,” Vali says.
“Yeah,” Bea says. “Except that mine’s proud of it.”
“She sounds like a challenging parent.”
Bea smiles. “I’m not telling you some sob story about my childhood, if that’s what you’re hoping for. You can look for your kicks elsewhere.”
“Oh, go on,” Vali says, tugging at his beard. “Just a short one.”
“Piss off.”
Vali grins. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
“No thanks.”
Vali meets Bea’s eye. “You’re impenetrable.”
“Too right. I’m not having you fishing around in my psyche. It’d give you nightmares.”
“You underestimate me.”
“You could get three Ph.D.s in behavioural psychology, moral philosophy, and theoretical politics,” Bea says, glancing away, “and you still wouldn’t be qualified to delve into my mind.”
Vali smooths his jumper over his stomach. “Don’t you ever tire of being mean?”
“You love it,” Bea says. “I remind you of your mamá. And all men fall in love with their mamá, don’t they? That’s primary school psychology. If I was any nicer, you wouldn’t love me anymore.”
Vali smiles, stroking his beard between forefinger and thumb. “Who said I was in love with you?”
“You’re mad about me.”
“Well, I’d certainly be mad if I was.”
“You’re certifiable.”
“Maybe. But I don’t think I’m the only one.”
Bea smiles, catching his eye. This time she doesn’t look away.
8:07 p.m.—Scarlet
Scarlet puts down the book she’s been hiding behind—retreating into the words, the world of Middle Earth, when she can’t stand the silences anymore. “What’s wrong, Grandma? You don’t like the chicken?”
Scarlet made an effort today to prepare a decent meal, but her grandmother hasn’t touched her food. Now she holds a glass of water and is frowning at it, as if she not only cannot recall picking it up but cannot understand why she would’ve done so in the first place.
“Grandma?”
Esme blinks at her granddaughter.
“Is everything okay?” Scarlet asks, suddenly paranoid that her grandmother somehow knows that she’s selling the café. She’s dearly hoping that, when she finally confesses, the loss won’t mean anything to Esme anymore. “Would you like something else?”
“Your mother was conceived in this café,” Esme says, almost to herself. “Did you know that?”
Scarlet brightens. “Really?”
“Behind the counter, after we closed one night.” Esme gazes at the counter, as if seeing something Scarlet