wasnât an inch of herself, said Imogen, that wasnât twinkling or flashing or jangling.
âArenât you the Sparkling Lady!â her mother had said admiringly. âNow come over here, both of you, and take a look at all these Christmas photos.â
Shedding ornaments over the carpet, Imogen rushed to look. Eddie pointed at one of the photographs. âLook at Aunt Beth, asleep with her mouth open!â
Imogen ran her fingers across the photos on the screen and giggled at Uncle Ted in his paper hat.
Then she said sadly, âNo Aunty Dora.â
Her mother pointed. âYes, sheâs there, sweetheart. Under your finger. And here. And sitting next to the tree in this one.â
But Imogen still looked forlorn, and said again, âNo. No Aunty Dora.â
Now her cousin was getting impatient. âDonât be silly, Immy.â He stabbed at the screen with his finger. âSheâs in this one. And this one.â
Imogenâs woolly jangled as she tossed her head. âAunty Doraâs gone.â
âGone where, sweetheart?â
But there was no way Imogen could explain. And her mother had stopped trying to listen even before the phone rang with the terrible news.
âThatâs awful,â I said. âSo did your mother guess?â
âNot then,â said Imogen. âIt was only when it happened a second time, ages later, that she thought back and remembered that morning with the Christmas photos.â
âWhy? Was the second time the same sort of thing?â
âNo. It was different. But it was just as strange . Iâd had a horrible day. Iâd lost the toss in my ballet class, and couldnât be the princess in the show.â She grinned, embarrassed. âI came home in floods . Mum did her best. âYou be a princess for me ,â she said. So I dressed up and started dancing. But it was stupid, so I ended up in tears again. Mum pulled me onto her lap, and read me a story about a little pit pony called Patch. And suddenly I was going mad, struggling and screaming about water closing over Patchâs head. And when we got further into the storyââ
âI know,â I told her. âI had that book, too. Thatâs a horrible bit, when he falls in the water.â
âAnd it seemed to poor Patch that he would never
again reach firm ground . . .â
Imogen shivered. âWell, next day, when I was calm again, and we reached that part in the story, Mum stopped and gave me a funny look. âYou knew this, didnât you?â And thatâs when she guessed.â
âMy mum would just have thought Iâd had the book read to me in school.â
âI think mine would have thought that, except that she says sheâs always had a bit of a gift that way herself.â
âIâm not sure why sheâd call it a âgiftâ,â I said.
Imogen looked blank.
I tried to explain. âI donât mean to be rude, but most of the time your work is terrible , and half of the books in the school give you the frights. On top of that, it seems that if you donât watch out where youâre putting your fingers, you know in advance when terrible things are going to happen â in books and in real life.â I spread my hands. âHardly a gift,â I continued. âMore like some sort of blight .â
From the look on her face youâd have thought that Iâd said she had some mangy disease, or something. She looked so upset I had to change the subject quickly.
âSo how does it work, then, this strange gift of yours?â
âWork?â The question puzzled her a little. âWell, itâs a sort of imagining. Like in a dream.â
âWhat sort of dream?â
âDepends. If the book that Iâm touching is happy, then itâs lovely. Like being there, but on a cloud. In things, but not quite.â
âLike reading,â I said. âLike