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“No, I didn’t,” Matt said. “I couldn’t find him. He’s still in the car somewhere.”

“You didn’t find Not-A-Cat? But Poppy can’t sleep without it!” Brooke looked at him in horror, a look he returned.

“I know, but I had other priorities at the time.”

Mabel was staring at the child. “What did you call him?”

“Not-A-Cat.” Elsie stroked Crumpet and kissed him again. Several times.

Mabel couldn’t believe he was tolerating it. Being kissed and hugged by a stranger was Crumpet’s idea of a nightmare but he was treating it like a fish supper.

Brooke glanced across to the child and saw she was talking about an actual cat, not a fictional one. “Elsie, put the cat down. It might not like being fussed over.”

It was true that generally Crumpet preferred physical affection to be on his own terms, a sentiment Mabel shared, but not today, apparently.

“But, Mummy—”

“I know it looks like the cat in your story,” Brooke said, “but this is a real animal not your sister’s soft toy, and you need to stop fussing him. Almost there, honey—” She turned her attention back to her younger daughter and finally unjammed the zip. “Done! Thank goodness.” She unzipped the coat and peeled it away from the child. Snow showered the hallway and slowly melted into ever-spreading pools. “I’m so sorry about the mess. I’ll clean it up. Is there somewhere we can dry our coats?”

Dry their coats? How long were they planning to stay? Were they moving in?

And then Mabel saw Crumpet close his eyes and press his head against the child.

It was a sight she’d never expected to see.

“Mummy!” Elsie hissed the word again and this time Brooke gave her daughter the attention she was seeking.

“What is it, honey?”

“The lady looks exactly like Tripalot, the witch.”

Brooke’s cheeks turned scarlet.

“Elsie! It’s not kind to say someone looks like a witch.” It was clear the mother wanted to melt into the floor along with the snow.

“I didn’t say she looks like a witch. I said she looks like Trip-alot. I love Tripalot.”

“I know you do, but still that’s the sort of thought we should keep in our heads and not share aloud in case it hurts someone’s feelings.” Visibly mortified, Brooke sent Mabel a look of apology. “Elsie has an active imagination, and she loves reading. She thinks you look a little bit like a character from one of her favourite b …” Her voice trailed off and she looked properly at Mabel for the first time.

“Not a little bit,” Elsie said. “A lot. Mummy?”

“Yes! Sorry. This is all a bit overwhelming.” Brooke stopped staring and smiled. “She thinks you look a lot like a character from her favourite book series—it’s called The Careless Witch, and the witch is called Tripalot because she’s always falling over, and the cat is called Not-A-Cat because, in fact, it isn’t a cat at all, but something she accidentally turned into a cat when she tripped over a pair of shoes. She calls it that to remind herself that it isn’t, in fact, a cat, so that she doesn’t forget that at some point she needs to find a way to turn it back into—” She cleared her throat. “Sorry. Too much information. You must think we’re quite mad. And you don’t look at all like the witch, of course. Right now, you look like an angel to us. You’ve been very kind. You’ve probably saved our lives.”

“But she does look like Tripalot, Mummy. Her nose isn’t quite straight.”

“Elsie, that’s enough.” Brooke was so flustered she dropped the coat she was holding. “This isn’t like you. You know it’s rude to comment on someone else’s appearance.”

“You told me to always be honest.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“And one of her eyes is green, and one is blue.”

Mabel kept her expression blank as she met the child’s curious stare. She could have told them that the reason she looked like the witch in the story was because she was the witch in the story, but she chose to stay silent.

Nor did she tell them that she was the one who had written those books. Not for the first time, she cursed the moment of self-indulgence that had tempted her to give her fictional character some of her own physical characteristics, particularly the more distinctive ones like her nose and her eyes. At the time, it had seemed funny. A little joke between her and her characters. And maybe a nod to the fact she’d poured a little of herself into the unfortunately clumsy witch.

When she’d done that, sitting alone at the kitchen table where she’d perfected all her drawings, she hadn’t anticipated the success of the book. Neither had her publisher. Nor had she anticipated the challenges that success might bring.