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At the time, they’d been living in Boston and it had been a low-key, happy life. But then the books had taken off and people had started arranging organised tours to visit various places that appeared in the first book—a tour that included a chance to photograph Mabel’s house. Then came the TV series that had broken all viewing records and after that, life had changed, and not always in a good way. Fame, she’d discovered, had a serious downside.

Feeling truly vulnerable for the first time in her life and guilty for exposing her family to the intrusion, Mabel had decided they had no option but to move.

Still, they’d eventually found her because in this day and age where everyone had a phone and seemed to be addicted to recording every moment of their lives, it was impossible to stay incognito for long.

Despite living the life of a recluse for the past eight years, people still occasionally appeared at her door either expecting her to produce a spell (she had thought of a way of making annoying people disappear, but sadly her chosen method was considered illegal) or to beg her to continue the series, which she’d ended abruptly without warning and without giving a reason (she considered that her business and no one else’s but unfortunately for her, others disagreed). Once a journalist had even faked an accident in an attempt to get access to her property.

She’d never quite adjusted to the fact that readers took ownership over the fictional people she created. The characters appeared in her head as nothing more than a wisp of a thought, and she took that thought and handled it carefully, expanding, moulding, creating, asking questions and searching for answers. She thought of herself as a sculptor, only her chosen medium wasn’t stone or clay or plaster—it was words. She shaped a character inside and out until they became so real to her she considered them to be friends. She talked to them. She got to know them. She laughed with them and she felt their pain. And then she sent them out into the world for other people to enjoy. Or not.

Sometimes she wanted to snatch them back and say they’re mine, but once a book was published, the characters ceased to belong to the author and belonged instead to the reader. It was as difficult as watching a beloved child leave home. When there was criticism, it cut as deeply as if someone had dug a knife into a member of her family.

When she’d written those books in a surge of glorious creativity all those years ago, she hadn’t for a moment imagined that children would still be reading them forty years later, turning up at the occasional book signing, clutching copies with curled edges handed down between generations. First editions sold for a ridiculous sum of money.

Given her popularity, the fact that this stranded family was familiar with her books wasn’t so surprising, but it was inconvenient. But hopefully, they wouldn’t be here for long. It was Christmas. No doubt they’d want to carry on to their destination as soon as possible.

And only now did she focus on the book that Elsie had been clutching tightly.

It was the book that had started it all. And it looked like a very old, very loved copy.

“Elsie, you’re not to mention it again.” Brooke stood up. “Does the cat have a name?”

Mabel dragged her gaze from the book.

“He’s called Crumpet.” She saw that Elsie was shivering. “You look cold. Do you like hot chocolate?” It had been a while since she’d been around young children but she recalled that they usually liked hot chocolate.

“Yes, please. I love marshmallows, too, if you have any.” Elsie stood and gathered up Crumpet, who never, but never, allowed himself to be picked up by anyone but Mabel and even then only if he sensed she was having a very bad day.

Mabel waited for him to make a spring for freedom, but he stayed passively in the little girl’s arms.

“Hot chocolate it is,” Mabel said faintly. “And I’ll have to check for marshmallows. It has been a while since I had a young guest in the house. Come through to the kitchen. I’d just made a cup of tea when I heard you knocking on the door.”

“We were on our way to my parents’ house,” Brooke said. She exchanged a swift glance with her husband. “We shouldn’t have been on the roads, but I haven’t seen my parents in a while. We spent last Christmas with Matt’s parents.”

Why was she sharing such detail, and in such a defensive tone? It was of no interest to Mabel which parents Brooke spent Christmas with. She didn’t know these people. They were strangers. Although choosing to visit anyone in a storm like the current one seemed to her to be a mystifying choice.

“Our car came off the road and we crashed into something,” Matt said, and Mabel briefly marvelled that mankind continued to exist given their deficient decision-making skills.

“I’m guessing that would be my wall.”

“I can’t apologise enough.” His face flushed, and he spread his hands, apologetic. “Brooke’s right—it was a mistake to be on the roads. We should never have tried to make the journey.”

“I didn’t say it was a mistake,” Brooke said. “It was an impossible decision. We’d flown all the way from London, so it seemed worth making every effort to reach our destination.”

Mabel was only interested in the state of her wall.

And for how long she was expected to accommodate them.

“Is your car drivable?” Perhaps she should have made her tone a little less hopeful. Did she sound rude?

“I doubt it.” Matt frowned. “But I promise whatever the damage is to your property, we’ll fix it. We’ll have to wait for the storm to ease and then take a closer look and call someone. The airbags deployed and we struggled to open the doors so I suspect the damage may be considerable.”

None of which was good news, either for her wall or for her privacy. If they were going to wait for the storm to ease then this wasn’t going to be a fleeting visit.

For the first time since she’d moved here, Mabel wished she had neighbours. You might be more comfortable next door.

But there were no neighbours, which was why they’d chosen this house.

Brooke hung their dripping coats on Mabel’s coat stand.