Free The Comet Seekers: A Novel by Helen Sedgwick Page A

curtains. Brigitte must be hidden by more than shadow – she is fading into the air.
    Come forward, she wants to say; are you here alone?
    But François is sleeping and Severine does not say the words out loud and the ghost remains where she is, barely visible. Watching.
    Severine rolls onto her side; from here she can see François’s bed and she tells herself that he is what’s real – the world is Severine and François and their holiday in Scotland, with wide oceans still to explore. It is her choice to make. She closes her eyes.
    When she opens her eyes again Brigitte is gone, and she tries to deny the disappointment she feels.
    François wakes early; he is in a new country that he has never seen before and he wants to go and explore.
    Scottish breakfast? his mama asks with a smile.
    He wrinkles up his nose to say no, pulls the curtains wide to look out at Edinburgh, where there are castles and bagpipes and looming hills of rock.
    Half an hour later they are on the Royal Mile, standing before a stall of fresh fruit and flowers. François chooses the clementines for breakfast, holding each in his hand before making his selection, testing for their ripeness the way he’s seen his mama do it, looking up to her with a grin. She buys herself a single tulip and threads it through the buttonhole of her coat; rests her hand on his head but he pulls away, already eager to see more.
    Severine’s not sure why she turned her back on Brigitte in the middle of the night. She never wanted to ignore the ghosts before – she spent most of her life willing them to appear. But before theyhad wanted to speak; they had been happy to see her. Now, their appearance seemed to say something else.
    No, not their appearance. Brigitte’s appearance.
    Where is her granny?
    As they walk up the cobbled streets, listen to the commentary about the castle – with François asking so many questions – take photos from between the cannons and eat ice cream despite the chill in the air, she catches herself glancing over her shoulder, looking into the darkened alleyways, behind closed blinds and along the shadows of the old town, wondering if Brigitte will appear again.
    What are you looking for?
    François pulls his mama away from a dark alleyway of steps that smells like a toilet.
    Just wondering where we should go next, she says.
    He doesn’t believe her. She was hardly listening to the man talking about the castle and when he got ice cream on his face she didn’t even notice. He had to wipe it off on his sleeve, and he doesn’t like doing that.
    Let’s sit down in the gardens, she says; the gardens used to be a loch in the middle of the city. That used to be where they dunked witches, she says, and then she stops talking suddenly.
    Is that a story you’re not supposed to tell a child? he says, and his mama looks surprised and maybe a little bit like she’s going to laugh.
    I’m going to tell you a secret now, she says.
    His eyes widen.
    OK.
    My granny told me when I was little, she says. And now I’m going to tell you.
    François doesn’t believe in Father Christmas any more. He doesn’t believe in magic either; he is eight years old! So he scrunches up his nose at his mama’s story of ghosts, and waits for her to tell him the real truth.
    Well, you were named after your great-great-grandpa Paul-François, she says, do you believe that much?
    Of course, he says, I’ve seen a photo of him, so I know that he was real. He’s just dead now.
    And of course that’s when Great-Grandpa Paul-François decides to appear.
    We need to talk, he says, fading in and out of vision.
    Severine shakes her head.
    I know, not now. Later. In the night. We can’t stay long here. It’s too far . . .
    He’s gone again.
    Severine frowns.
    The bagpipe player starts up again, and François clasps his hands over his ears and squeals. Shouting over the noise, he says, you know, Mama, there’s no such thing as witches, and there’s no such thing as