At breakfast we don’t speak, which makes things easier. There’s a plan in my head that’s growing so fast I can’t concentrate on anything. I’m spilling milk, dropping sugar, fumbling about in the cutlery drawer. It’s like I’ve got sausages for fingers. As Nell makes coffee, I slip Borage my toast because I can’t eat a thing.

Eventually I break the silence.

‘Can I have some lunch money, please?’

‘You must have a hole in your pocket, young lady. Didn’t I give you five pounds yesterday?’

She did. It’s still in my purse. The lie makes my face burn. But she’s too busy picking papers up off the table to notice.

‘Over there,’ Nell says, waving vaguely at the dresser. ‘In the cake tin.’

Once she’s left the room, I get the cake tin down. Inside is a wad of notes – easily enough to get to London – but taking it feels wrong. So I tell myself I’m doing this for Theo. I’ve had enough of fairies and trees and bad magic. I just want to make sure my little brother is all right. Dad might not want to visit him, but I really do. And I promise myself I’ll pay Nell back when I can.

*

The school bus is packed as usual. I make a beeline for the back seats, where the older people who go to college sit, because today I’m going to ride with them all the way into town. Some of the Ferndean kids turn round in their seats like they can’t believe what I’m doing. There’s one free place at the back, though someone’s bag is on it. As the bus lurches forwards, I trip down the aisle. The older kids laugh. Right now, I’d happily die of embarrassment.

‘Oh let her sit down, Dan!’ someone says.

There’s much eye rolling, but the boy’s clearly kinder than Ella because he does move his bag.

‘Thanks,’ I say.

I shrink into the seat, hugging my bag with Theo’s card safe inside it. The older kids soon forget I’m here. They’re talking about a TV show I’ve never heard of. Once I’ve checked my purse is still in my pocket, I try to breathe normally again.

Sixteen minutes later, we reach Ferndean High. The bus swings into the driveway and stops. The kids down the front get off. I shrink further into my seat. The older kids keep talking. I can’t believe I’m about to skip school. I’d never do something this daring at home.

Then, just as the bus doors shut, the boy next to me turns round.

‘Hey,’ he says, looking at my blazer. ‘Shouldn’t you be …?’

More faces peer round my seat. I hug my bag even tighter to my chest. They’re going to tell. I know they are. I bite my lip.

‘Reckon we’ve got a skiver here,’ a girl with a silver nose stud says, and suddenly they’re all patting me on the shoulder like I’ve just scored a goal.

‘Respect,’ says the boy next to me. He raises his hand so we do a clumsy high-five. It makes me feel stupidly chuffed.

‘Your secret’s safe with us,’ says the nose stud girl, and offers me some gum.

I take it. The bus moves on. So far so good.

We join a main road. The traffic’s heavy so we slow right down. It seems to take forever. Finally we stop alongside a grey building, where hundreds of students are hanging around outside on the pavement.

‘Westway College, ladies and gents,’ says the driver.

The older kids groan and stand up super-slowly. All I’ve got to do now is sneak past the driver. Once I’m off, I’ll find the station. It should be easy.

But no one’s shifting. They’re all bickering about who’s left crisp packets on the floor. The driver joins in; it’s a different one today. She gets up from her seat and comes down the aisle. One minute she’s talking litter, the next her eyes fall on me. I’m the only one here in school uniform.

‘Hang on,’ she says. ‘You were meant to get off at Ferndean.’

It goes silent. Everyone’s looking at me. My heart starts to race.

‘Not today,’ I say, which isn’t exactly a lie.

‘Got a note, have you?’

I haven’t. Not even a pretend one.

‘Excuse me.’ I push past her before she can blink. The big kids cheer me on. It feels good. I can do this.

Out on the pavement, I’m surrounded by students hugging folders to their chests. The bus driver shouts something, but no one takes any notice. There’s safety in numbers, I think, and stay hovering in the crowd until the bus finally pulls away from the kerb. Only then do I start walking. I’ve not the foggiest where the station is, but there’s a shop selling newspapers on the corner of the street. So I go in to ask.

The woman behind the counter thinks I’m bunking, I can tell. But she points out where the station is and mentions a shortcut through the park. I’m nervous again now. Gut-churning, sweaty-hands nervous. But as I go through the park, I find I’m noticing the trees. Oak, ash, beech. A few days ago I didn’t know one tree from another.

The park ends at a pair of tall green gates. Up ahead I see traffic lights. More cars, buses, lorries. And there’s a road sign with a symbol on it, that red one with white lines. My stomach does a flip. It means I’m nearly there.

Minutes later, I’m at the station. The glass doors close behind me and I walk along a passage that runs underground. It’s echoey and smells like old toilets. There are people everywhere, carrying bags, dragging those wheelie suitcases, drinking takeaway coffee. I check my purse is still in my coat pocket and head for the platform.

There’s a bing-bong on the Tannoy, then a voice: ‘The next train to arrive at platform four is the nine twenty-five to …’

I don’t hear the rest. There’s a great whooshing sound, a screech of brakes and the stink of hot rubber. People swarm around me. I’m jammed up against someone’s bag, someone’s pushchair. I look for the ticket machine but I can’t see a thing. The crowd shuffles forwards, taking me with it. I try to turn round but can’t move.

Then somehow I’m inside the train. There are people still piling on behind me. Out on the platform, a whistle blows. The doors hiss shut. I’m going somewhere but I’ve no idea where.