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       Praise for Sarah Lean

      “Sarah Lean weaves magic and emotion into beautiful stories.”

       Cathy Cassidy

      “Touching, reflective and lyrical.” Culture supplement,

       The Sunday Times

      “… beautifully written and moving. A talent to watch.”

       The Bookseller

      “Sarah Lean’s graceful, miraculous writing will have you weeping one moment and rejoicing the next.”

       Katherine Applegate, author of The One and Only Ivan

       For Edward, who filmed our home and showed me his point of view … and the cat’s

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      Table of Contents

       Title Page

      Praise for Sarah Lean

       Dedication

       Chapter 1

       Chapter 2

       Chapter 3

       Chapter 4

       Chapter 5

       Chapter 6

       Chapter 7

       Chapter 8

       Chapter 9

       Chapter 10

       Chapter 11

       Chapter 12

       Chapter 13

       Chapter 14

       Chapter 15

       Chapter 16

       Chapter 17

       Chapter 18

       Chapter 19

       Chapter 20

       Chapter 21

       Chapter 22

       Chapter 23

       Chapter 24

       Chapter 25

       Chapter 26

       Chapter 27

       Chapter 28

       Chapter 29

       Chapter 30

       Chapter 31

       Chapter 32

       Chapter 33

       Chapter 34

       Chapter 35

       Chapter 36

       Chapter 37

       Acknowledgments

       About the Author

       Books by Sarah Lean

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

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      1.

      GRANDAD DRAWS THE OARS INTO THE BOAT as we coast on the glassy water until we nudge into the bank. We both have our fingers over our lips, not to tell each other to be quiet, because we are, but because we think alike. I don’t know what Grandad has seen, I only know to trust him.

      “Can you see it, Hannah?” Grandad whispers.

      The dappled and striped shadows are barely moving in the golden September evening and I can’t see anything in the jumble of grasses and reeds. I shake my head.

      “Keep looking,” Grandad whispers.

      I follow his eyes, but it takes me a long while to spot the fawn, curled up and waiting. Its skin is hardly any different from the landscape around it. I can see the glisten of its black nose, but it knows to stay still, to be safe. Once I see it, it stands out a mile.

      I whisper, “Is the fawn all right on its own, Grandad?”

      He nods his head towards another curve of the bank. A deer is looking at us, anxious because she doesn’t want to draw attention to her fawn, who is separated from her by a channel of

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