in my head. Of course, I didn’t know it was you at the time.”
“What did I say?”
Liyana smiles. “That you were going to kill Cassie.”
I smile. “That sounds about right.”
“And you asked your grandma what to do. Then you called her a constipated hamster and—”
I frown. “A what? But I don’t have a grandma.”
Liyana mirrors my frown. “I did think it was strange. Do you know anyone called Ezekiel?”
“No.”
“Then it must have been someone else, I guess.” Liyana looks thoughtful. “Anyway, I dreamed about you, in the hotel, and—”
“You dreamed about me?” I say, though, strangely, I’m not shocked.
Liyana relaxes. “Do you think I’m delusional?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “You might be. But I know you’re not lying.”
“Thanks,” Liyana says, as if she’s entirely used to people thinking her delusional. “Anyway, I had that strange sense of knowing that you have in dreams, right? When nothing needs explaining, you just believe it. And, in the dream, I knew you were my sister. I still knew it when I woke up, which was the weird bit, I guess . . .”
“This whole thing is weird,” I say.
“Yeah, I suppose it is,” Liyana concedes. She glances about the flat, then back to me. “So, why do you believe me?”
“I don’t know. I’m pretty sure we’ve never met, but I feel like I know you.”
Liyana nods. “Me too.”
Just then, Teddy’s snores float across the living room.
Liyana starts. “What’s that?”
“It’s okay, it’s my brother.”
“Where?”
I nod towards the blue silk shoji screen concealing his bed in the corner of the room. “He sleeps there. He’s . . .” Suddenly I want to show my possible sister my sleeping brother. I stand. “Come and see his pictures.”
I cross the floor, beckoning Liyana to follow. I pull one of the screen panels aside to reveal Teddy and all the pictures—his gorgeous haute couture designs—stuck to the walls around his bed.
She stares, clearly struck by Teddy’s undeniable splendidness. I feel an unbidden and deep rush of affection for them both.
“They’re . . . incredible,” she whispers. “But—how old is he?”
“Nine,” I say, not without pride. “Nearly ten.”
“And he draws better than I do,” Liyana says. “How depressing.”
“You draw?”
“Only comic books. And . . . well, I only do them to amuse myself. I was going to the . . .” She leans forward to a drawing of a 1950s tea dress. Teddy shifts in his sleep, mumbling. I step back, so Liyana must do the same, and pull the shoji screen shut. I cross the carpet, avoiding that spot, and return to the sofa. Liyana follows, stepping on that spot, and sits next to me.
“So, you live alone, just you and your brother?”
I nod. “Ma died when I was fourteen.”
She frowns. Even with her brow furrowed, my God she’s beautiful. I try to think how I’d describe her, in my notebook. Her skin is so smooth and dark, like . . . the sheen on a blackbird’s wing. Her bright black eyes like . . . But no, right now she seems to me unparalleled in nature. I feel a sudden longing to shed my anaemic pallor and unremarkable features to look like her.
“How old are you?” she says.
“Seventeen,” I say. “Eighteen in two weeks.”
“Yeah? Me too, on Halloween.”
Now I’m surprised. “That’s my birthday too.”
“Oh,” Liyana says. “How weird.”
“This whole thing is pretty fucking weird,” I say. “Don’t you think?”
“Yeah.” She grins. “But it’s pretty fucking amazing too.”
10:39 p.m.—Goldie
It’s madness. Absolute madness. And yet, I’m doing it. Liyana has fallen asleep on the sofa and I am sitting on the carpet, cross-legged, with a rose at my feet. A rose I impulsively stole from a stall in the market square yesterday afternoon.
I stare at the rose, trying to summon something—I have no idea what—within me. Okay, so I’m trying to move the damn thing.
After ten minutes of intense focus, of trying to summon up some sort of magical force, of trying to re-create my recurring dreams, I’ve achieved absolutely nothing. The rose remains a rose and hasn’t shifted even a fraction.
Shit, shit, shit.
I throw up my hands, like Teddy does when he’s frustrated with an illustration that isn’t working. Which is fitting, since only a kid would think she could make her dreams manifest. What’ll I try next—leaping from the top of our block of flats to see if I can fly?
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I glare at the rose then snatch it up. I pluck at each petal one by one, cursing with each velvet rip. Then I stand,