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‘What are we then?’ she asks.
‘We could be friends.’
‘Or sisters,’ says Addie. ‘I’ve always wanted one of those.’
I can’t swallow the lump in my throat.
Addie is still talking excitedly. ‘Sisters keep secrets for each other, so you can’t tell anyone about the smoking or the thieving.’
‘I guess not.’
‘Or about Flossie and Soot and Ziggy.’
‘Who?’
‘My cats.’
‘OK.’
‘And you have to help me convince Dad to let me have a dog.’
‘I’ll try.’
Another silence. ‘Can I show you something?’ she asks eagerly, taking my hand and leading me along a small brick path down the side of the cottage and up steps into a terraced area, with a wooden bench seat, and a view over the headland and a rock platform exposed by the tide. Addie picks a wilting flower from a rose bush and breaks the petals in her hand. She releases them over my head like snowflakes and laughs.
‘This is my favourite place in the whole world,’ she says.
‘Why is that?’
‘This is where my mum used to sit every afternoon and read books and watch me play in the garden. I don’t remember much about her. I was only three when she died.’
‘I can tell you about her.’
It’s then that I notice the small square of polished metal screwed into the uppermost railing of the bench. The bronze plaque reads:
IN LOVING MEMORY OF AGNESA OSMANI, WHO STOPPED HERE A WHILE AND ENJOYED THE VIEW.
I don’t realise I’m crying until Addie puts her arms around me and says, ‘I miss her too.’
I’m not sure how I feel. I’m exhausted and disappointed and angry and sad and excited and scared. My sister has come back to me. She has added a drop of condensed colour into my black-and-white world, giving definition and shade to things that have been lost in grey.
I finally feel as though I belong here. The contours of the country have become mine. The sun is mine, the grass, the trees, the birds, the bees, the waves, the wind. This is my home and I know what comes next. I’m going to have the biopsy on my brain. And if they say I need an operation I will. And if they want me to wait and see, I’ll wait and see.
I have a reason to fight now. A sister. A niece. A purpose.
34
Cyrus
Evie is still in the garden with Addie, sitting on the bench, half in shade and half in sunshine. I watch from the kitchen window, trying to imagine what it must be like to discover that Agnesa survived the sinking and gave birth and made a new life for herself.
‘That used to be her favourite reading spot,’ says Murdoch. ‘It’s where I scattered her ashes.’
‘Why are you telling us this now?’ I ask.
He looks at his hands. ‘Because I know what’s coming.’
‘You’re going to prison.’
