For a few moments, we stand in silence and the sea, look out to the silver-grey horizon turning gold. It’s so unimaginably quiet. Peaceful.
I turn to the rucksack slung over El’s shoulders, take out the cardboard box with pink-painted flowers. We both look down at it, and then at each other. It’s the first time we’ve all been together since we were children.
‘I wish—’ My voice catches.
‘Me too,’ El says, and her voice is as close to breaking. She presses her palm against my knuckles, against the box.
I open it, and we each take a handful of ashes and throw them out over the clear blue water. Watch as they catch the low wind, fan and float and fall, settle like spindrift across the waves, disappear. By the time the box is empty, the sky has lightened and the air is warmer.
‘Goodbye, Iona,’ El says.
And I know she hears the whispered echo of my ‘Sorry’ in the same moment that I hear hers.
We’re quiet for a long time, until finally El packs away the empty box, clears her throat. ‘What will you do now?’
I don’t reply. I know what she’s asking. I think of the vast blue sky and sea of Venice Beach; the gothic spires and cobbles of Edinburgh. The wind tickles my hair against my neck, my bare shoulders.
‘There’s no such bird as a glorious golden curre, you know.’ El looks out at the horizon. I hear Mum’s reading voice, low and steady and comforting. Whenever she spreads her big golden wings and flies away, where she lands is where her next life begins as if the one before it had never happened at all.
‘Curre is Latin for run!’
I turn to look at the press of El’s lips, the set of her jaw, as she tries not to ask me again what I’m going to do, where I’m going to go.
‘Anne of Green Gables was never my favourite book,’ I say. ‘It was always Papillon.’
‘What?’
‘It didn’t matter how many times he was caught and imprisoned – in penal colonies or camps, asylums or prisons or islands – he never ever stopped trying to escape. In a sailboat. With a pirate.’
‘I miss The Redemption,’ El says, and her voice is uncertain. Uncertain of me.
Four minutes. Four minutes and God knows how many generations of pain and lies and suffering have always separated us. But she still knows me better than anyone else in the whole world. Not because we were once almost fused together like sand and limestone – we never were – but because we will always be bound together by something much stronger.
Mirrorland was magic. It taught us how to fight. To hide. To dream. It taught us how to escape long before we broke through its wall or its world. I look back out to sea, where the sun has begun pushing up over the horizon, turning the sky and sea a bloody and beautiful red. X marks this spot. A rough coastline of rocks and beach, an interior of forest and flatland. A tropical paradise instead of a snowy wonderland. The end of Mirrorland’s treasure hunt.
And so I turn to look at El. Reach across the space between us to take her hand.
‘We can buy another Redemption,’ I say. ‘Sail the Caribbean together.’
And at her sob, I close my eyes, remember for the last time the give of the soft, creaking wood as I shifted my weight from left foot to right under the ocean swell, the cool touch of a twenty-knot southeasterly against my face, the excited shouts of our crew and the ringing screams of splintering wood and dying men, the bellows of cannon and musketoons. How safe we had always felt, no matter how terrifying the battle. No matter how loud the roar of the squall. No matter who looked back at us from the mirror.
We will not leave each other, I think. Never so long as we live.
I squeeze El’s hand tighter, hear the long-ago echo of her chattering teeth as we looked out towards the harbour and the blood-bright promise of the firth and the dawn. And I wish Mum could see us. I wish she could know that all of it had been worth it in the end. All the suffering, all the horror, all that dark and wonderful magic. That we made it to The Island. That we’re together. All three of us. We will always be together.
And even though I haven’t said anything at all, El looks at me and smiles wide, the rising sun turning her face golden.
‘She knows.’
*
And that was the day our third life began.
Acknowledgements
So many people make a book. Probably more than I know about or am able to mention here, but to whom I am immeasurably grateful nonetheless.
Many thanks firstly to Carla Josephson of the Borough Press, for taking a chance on both me and Mirrorland, for all her support and enthusiasm from day one, and, last but not least, for being such an amazing editor.
Huge thanks, too, to the rest of the Borough team at HarperCollins: Suzie Dooré, Ore Agbaje-Williams, Ann Bissell, and Jaime Witcomb. Thank you to Claire Ward and Holly Macdonald for their terrific artwork (and endless patience!). To Izzy Coburn, Rachel Quin, and Katy Blott for all their brilliant efforts in bringing Mirrorland to as many readers as possible. And final thanks to all the wonderful copy editors and proof readers, for catching all my mistakes before anyone else could see them! I have loved working with you all.
My greatest thanks must go to Hellie Ogden, agent extraordinaire. Without her tireless talent, enthusiasm, and support – editorial, practical, emotional, you name it – Mirrorland as it is would not exist. In the last few years, my life has completely changed, in ways I never imagined possible, and I’ve bookmarked the moment that began as the day Hellie called to offer me representation.
Grateful thanks, too, to all at Janklow & Nesbit UK,
