I kiss him.

  He kisses me back, closed mouthed but soft, and that’s what is missing from my drawing. This not a long-term kinda person is as soft as butter. On the inside, I mean. He’s plenty hard in other places that I roll against now, and we get off again, slow and unhurried, because there are hours left on my clock, right?

  That meeting might as well be forever away while his hand wraps me. It could be years off when we get so hot and sweaty we need to make use of that shower he built for honeymooners. And if washing each other led to getting off for a third time, that was all good to hurry.

  Time still rushes, and in no time at all I’m waiting at a station where I can’t avoid that I don’t have anything new to present to that agent.

  It is almost the very last minute.

  I’d hate myself if I wasn’t making the most of a final kiss with Hayden that comes with another quiet rumble that I barely hear over the sound of the station announcement. The next arrival will be the train to Paddington. I need to be on it.

  “Good luck today, Rae.” He takes a step back. “Hope you get everything you want.”

  “I’m gonna ask for it.” It’s so worth tagging this on. “You should too, Hayden. Ask for what you want, as well. You deserve something for you.” And that means I get to carry the surprised shift in his expression onto the train with me.

  I’ve got work to do now, no way to ignore this deadline any longer, but I still prop up my phone, get out my sketchbook, and draw who I left on that station and who I won’t see again.

  Cornwall blurs outside the train window as I sketch moorland as rugged as him. Towns and fields fly by too. The train must pass a music festival, I guess. Tents cram close together, and I add them to this drawing, only not exactly. These aren’t music festival tents or the nylon jungle I left across the Channel. I recreate the neat rows I last saw on a different child’s journey, one found buried under a school foundation.

  Then I look up, watching the trail of an airplane flying high above the southwest of England.

  Who knows why that comes out on my page as a Spitfire trailing smoke over Hayden—it wasn’t his life journey on that fragile postwar scroll, was it? It is him I draw again now, a giant extending a hand to a ghost, a wraith, to a vague outline of a child with hopes and dreams who washed up in this country after⁠—

  I add flames to that Spitfire. Draw more around a blazing forest that caught fire the last time the world marched together against Nazis, which has nothing to do with the kids I’ve worked with in France.

  Only…

  Something clicks for me then, and yeah, I’ve often cursed myself for being scattered, but these moments of clarity? This intense hyper-focus? They almost make it worth saying no to the prescription medication that could save me from playing fast and loose with deadlines.

  I flip back several pages, leafing through miniature hero after hero. That agent’s instruction repeats in time with the clack of wheels against the train tracks.

  Put a unique spin on a journey.

  The train hurtles towards my second shot at getting this right.

  And as for me?

  I get busy drawing.

  8

  HAYDEN

  I leave Rae at the station, then keep myself busy all week long. That isn’t hard as Cornwall shakes off her summer greens for autumn metallics. Wheat ripples in the sea breeze, a golden ocean I sail through first on combines and then on tractors, baling straw.

  I do that all over again the next week too on a different farm, sprinkling in a few of the last tasks left to complete at Glynn Harber—tasks that Luke told me to press pause on, which is proof that he’s a local. He told me the weather waits for no farmer, and he wasn’t wrong about that, but that repetitive work of driving up and down fields only gives me time for wondering how Rae’s meeting went in London.

  So what if we only had a one-off that always had a deadline? Now I can’t help wondering how things panned out for someone I’m pretty sure was desperate to score long-term funding for his project and wasn’t as fully prepared as he could have been.

  Because he helped me.

  Fourteen days after we said our goodbyes, I’m also unprepared for a message pinging my phone.

  Not from Rae.

  I’ve had plenty of time to regret that we didn’t exchange numbers, even if our weekend together was a one-and-done, fleeting but so fucking good. I’d still much rather read a message from him than from who sends me this one.

  Luke Lawson: We should finish our talk.

  I know which conversation he will want to revisit.

  It won’t be about that clearing I made for his students, which I keep circling back to between farm work. Charles says the nature-based activities I’ve added are proof I’d be an ideal candidate to work here full time. He insists all I’d need is a formal Forest School qualification, and that I should ask for a chance to run classes here while studying for it.

  Last year, I wouldn’t have wanted that full-time commitment even if I had the right teaching credentials. I still thought my camping business had a future. Now, after spending a single night under canvas with Rae and remembering how that stove only took the edge off the cold last winter, I’m tempted to ask for what Charles says would get me a guaranteed yes and a permanent place at the stables. Even if that means sharing with a happily humming fucker.

  Only I’m almost certain that Luke hasn’t messaged about me sharing the stables with Rowan for any longer.

  He’ll want to revisit a conversation that a hectic wedding and a couple of busy weeks interrupted. His next text feels like confirmation.

  Luke Lawson: Come and find me as soon as you can.

  I can also guess what that means.

  He’s had time to research what kind of tests players take before big matches. I even confessed to getting marched off a pitch in front of thousands, didn’t I?

  That doesn’t happen for minor reasons.

  Run classes for him? There’s no chance, especially now his school is full of students.

  Charles has mentioned that some are fragile. Others are apparently volatile enough that Luke has had to stagger their arrivals. That has been a partial blessing—those new kids trickling into his school have kept Luke too busy to track me down and ask for my key for the stables back.

  He’ll want to end my contract right now, even if I haven’t completely finished.

  I get busy then too, only I spend every last minute in the woods doing what Charles suggested to extend learning.

  I hear that in his posh accent—help the children to need each other—so that’s what I do over and over, creating natural teamwork chances with logs and tarps. With spoons and jars and buckets, and planks it will take two to carry. And with a storytelling chair that I turn into a real throne by carving a crown, a finishing touch I can’t help wishing Rae knew he inspired with his king of the fairies drawing.

  Of me.

  I add more finishing touches for both kids and adults, all while picturing an unsteady little girl who spilled her wedding petals and a brain-injured man I made feel bad but didn’t mean to.

  These adult-height handrails are my apology to Justin for having absolutely zero intention of seeking him out for a footy-related conversation. No need to revisit those bad old days, but I do hope he gets to use this place and enjoy it.

  I also hope that Rae’s second pitch went better than his first one—that he got his big chance, even if I’ll never know which journey he picked to run with.

  He mentioned so many kids he’d met overseas while he sketched at that wedding, always coming back to one he drew wearing a yellow life vest, her skinny little arms outstretched to a plane that flew away without her family. Rae drew a cape for that girl, and now I kinda wish I knew if she made the final cut in his story.

  Maybe that’s a soccer hangover—a pang of sympathy for anyone left on a bench. Perhaps I’ll pass a bookshop one day and find out.

  And perhaps one day I’ll figure out how my stepmum always knows when to reach out to me.

  I sit on that storytelling throne and get the virtual kick in the arse I need from her.

  Kirsty: I just got the girls’ savings account statements!!!

  Kirsty: Seriously, love, stop adding to them.

  Kirsty: Spend your money on yourself. We’ve all got everything we need.

  Kirsty: Apart from seeing more of you.

  She follows that with a screen full of emojis that blow kisses, and one random dollop of poop.

  Kirsty: Sorry. Didn’t mean to send that emoji, but I do mean it about the money. Seriously. They’ll only spend it on clothes, and there isn’t room for any more!!!

  She sends a photo of their bedroom, and yeah, it’s cluttered and chaotic, the triple bunks I built for them almost camouflaged by clothing, but it is also enough of an incentive to get my head on straight, even if driving tractors across bumpy fields so often lately means my fingers shake while I type this.

  Hayden: I’ll build them a bigger wardrobe next time I’m up.

  I tag on another message before she can ask when that will be, and I add a kiss for each of them.

  Hayden: Soon xxxx

  That might be much sooner than I want once harvest is over and I run out of too-busy-to-visit excuses.

  I’ll also run out of money to send home.

  I shove that thought away the same way I shove my hands deep in my pockets to still them.

  Another thought won’t be shoved down. It clings like a burr while I sit on a throne in a kingdom I’ve spent a summer creating.

  I do want to be who teaches the kids here.

  Adam toddling up to me with his arms raised like the kid in that picture Rae sketched is only confirmation.

  We have a quick play while a tired-looking Charles wheels napping babies. Adam likes the thin discs of logs that I’ve sawn. We count them. Make a path of stepping stones with them. He jumps from each one before we stack them into a tower, and I find a chrysalis hiding. I haven’t read a book about a hungry caterpillar to my sisters in forever. It comes back to me for Adam. I’m word-perfect while I sit on that throne with him, and when I finally exit the woods, I’m determined to try to stay for longer.

  At least through the winter.

  I march to the main school building, because Rae didn’t put off that meeting of his, did he? He got on that train because kids need the cash getting a yes could net him. Now I take a shortcut—no brambles here to snag me or ivy left to smother this natural beauty.

  The woods look so much better, and so does the school without the scaffolding that covered it all summer. Now windows gleam with a golden sunset, and I should go straight upstairs to find Luke and ask him to let me lead those sessions for him.

  What I actually do is hesitate on the threshold of the front door, feet planted on mosaic tile welcoming me to Glynn Harber, and…

  Will I still be welcome, if he has done his research?

  I backtrack and end up at the stables, which feels like a mistake as soon as I see what waits on my bedside table.

  The fairy king that Rae left here for me stares out from a sheet of sketchpad paper. He’s confident and commanding, at peace with his scars. With his past. Even his gaze is calm, and fuck me but I thought I was calm too until someone said four little words within Luke Lawson’s hearing.

  Failed a pre-match test.

  Maybe that’s why I feel seventeen all over again as I hold a sketch that Rae surely didn’t have time to waste by drawing the weekend he was here.

  I want to live up to how he saw me.

  So I do.

  I retrace my steps to find Luke, who doesn’t make that easy. He isn’t in his study where I knock and wait like a shiny brass sign orders, and maybe him not telling me to enter should be a reprieve, only I can’t stop thinking of Rae telling me he was gonna ask for what he really wanted and that I should too.

  That’s the spur in the side I need to go searching through classrooms. The smell of fresh paint travels with me down hallways lined with noticeboards. And that’s where I find Rae.

  Not for real.

  A photo of him is on a noticeboard just inside the library. He’s surrounded by kids. By sand. By shared art projects, none of which hold my attention. I’m drawn to eyes that smile even in a photo, and to his brand of busy interest. I’m so engrossed that I don’t hear Luke until he stands beside me.

  “Was he ready in time for his meeting?”

  I jump. Not due to surprise. Leaping is any goalie’s first reaction, and that’s what I do now by coming to Rae’s defence. “He won’t let those kids down.”

  Luke repeats what I last saw on a dance floor when a soldier held up both hands to say don’t shoot. Luke’s upraised hands ask me to hold fire the same way, only he doesn’t back off. If anything, he draws closer to me and rephrases while speaking quietly. “Of course he won’t let them down.” All of his frown lines deepen as he makes a quiet confession. “I only wondered about how his meeting might have gone for selfish reasons.”

  “Selfish?” That isn’t a word I’d associate with this headmaster. I’ve watched him work hard all summer. When he hasn’t been walking and talking with his trainee teachers, he’s wielded tools or paint rollers. Even now, he’s dotted with white spatters. He’s also midway through another chore for the kids who learn here.

  Luke gestures at a box of books I assume are meant to fill the shelves of this new library. “I was hoping Rae would help me add to our collection of stories about journeys, like in these books, especially if those stories involve failure.”

  “Failure?”

  I guess we aren’t talking about fiction anymore.

  This is about me.

  I brace myself, but Luke picks up a picture book for little children. “Rae recommended this one to me. Said it was a particularly difficult story that spoke to him, got to him right here.”

  He touches his chest while something deep inside mine twinges at the thought of Rae hurting. What Luke adds next soothes it.

  “He said that story healed him. Not sure if that’s because he saw himself in it or because it was illustrated by someone who went on to become his mentor.” He taps a book cover showing a boy staring up at a sky full of stars, his gaze fixed on the brightest one sparkling high above him. And isn’t that another reminder of Rae right there, only under a canopy of Cornish stars with me.

  Luke touches that bright star on the cover of the book. “I ordered several by the same illustrator based on Rae’s recommendation. This is the one that held special meaning for him, but do you know what almost happened to it this afternoon?”

  I shake my head and Luke tells me.

  “I haven’t been able to find a perfect librarian for Glynn Harber. I settled for someone who fit the bill on paper, and that’s who I found packing these books away to return, because”—he makes air quotes—“they aren’t suitable for children. None of them. Not even the book Rae personally recommended. The one story he said made him feel less alone.”

  “Alone?” There goes my chest again, twinging.

  Luke points back to that noticeboard full of photos.

  “Perhaps Rae meant he wasn’t alone in wanting to help children through art. Regardless, the librarian decided none of these books were suitable. Said they had too many scary low points.”

  He smiles tightly while proving to me that he isn’t afraid to end contracts early like I’ve come here more than half expecting.

  “We’ve agreed to differ. Parted ways before he could return them.” Now Luke is rueful. “And unfortunately before he could finish shelving any of the books he did approve of, hence…” He gestures again at the mostly empty shelves in this library. “It looks as if I’ll be on duty—which isn’t the most optimal timing—until I can trial another addition to my team. Someone with a more open mindset.” He admits to making a mistake without any excuses. “I selected the wrong person. Me. No one else. I made an error of judgement. Perhaps I hoped too hard that I’d found someone with a storyteller’s soul for our students. Someone who knows the value of seeing yourself in fiction, in getting to be a hero instead of a victim.”

  Like Rae does with all those kids.

  I glance again at the photos on the noticeboard. Rae is almost clean-shaven in the first. He’s increasingly bearded and progressively more harrowed as I walk along this record of what Luke tells me is a collaboration between several projects. “Our counsellor Reece helps to run the Safe Harbour project. He’s always gathering up like-minded people.”

  He has also gathered kids. Each photo features different children. A tide of statistics, Rae had called them.

  What else did he say that night while wedding guests danced and he drew them on his phone with a stylus?

  A never-ending tsunami of half-finished stories.

  Luke murmurs, “Having an extra story-telling person on my team was key to my plans for Glynn Harber, but if that librarian couldn’t see the value of difficult journeys, I can’t possibly risk them around my students, can I?”

  Risk them.

  That phrase has rattled through my brain all day long. For the last two weeks as well.

  Luke picks up the same thread and runs with it. Not literally though. If anything, he cautiously peers around a set of shelving, then crooks a finger. I follow to see his little daughter curled up on a beanbag seat, asleep with a picture book open beside her. He carefully scoops it up and retreats with it to show me.

  “Risk Jamila never getting to see Syrian children like herself and her brother?”

  The book is full of little girls and boys just like her and her brother, Hadi.

  “Risk her not getting to see that good times are possible after bad ones?”

  There’s loss on these pages, and how the fuck an artist conveyed that without it being terrifying, I don’t know, but Rae’s mentor has drawn love far more often than he has drawn fear or sadness.

  Luke touches one of those caring images. “Risk her not getting to see how much her heritage matters? Heritage like you helped to translate for me, back when we found little Olek’s scroll and diary in the school foundation, remember?”