The Ice Twins Read Online Free PDF Page B

co-twin, to her twin sibling, than she is to her parents, or even her own children.
    And I also read something about twins and dogs. I am sure.
    Urgently I search the shelves. This one? No. This one? Yes.
    Pulling down the book – Multiple Births: A Practical Guide – I flick hurriedly to the index.
    Dogs, page 187.
    And here it is. This is the paragraph I remembered.
Identical twins can sometimes be difficult to physically differentiate, well into their teenage years – even, on occasion, for their parents. Curiously, however, dogs do not have the same difficulty. Such is the canine sense of smell, a dog – a family pet, for instance – can, after a few weeks, permanently differentiate between one twin and another, by scent alone.
    The book rests in my hands; but my eyes are staring into the total blackness of the uncurtained window. Piecing together the evidence.
    Kirstie’s personality has become quieter, shyer, more reserved, this last year. More like Lydia’s. Until now I had ascribed this to grief. After all, everyone has changed this last year.
    But what if we havemade a terrible mistake? The most terrible mistake imaginable? How would we unravel it? What could we do? What would it do to all of us? I know one thing: I cannot tell my fractured husband any of this. I cannot tell anyone. There is no point in dropping this bomb. Not until I am sure. But how do I prove this, one way or another?

    Dry-mouthed and anxious, I walk out onto the landing. I stare at the door. And those words written in spangled, cut-out paper letters.
    Kirstie Lives Here.

3
    I once read a survey that explained how moving house is as traumatic as a divorce, or as the death of a parent. I feel the opposite: for the two weeks after our meeting with Walker – for the two weeks after Kirstie said what she said – I am fiercely pleased that we are moving house, because it means I am overworked and, at least sometimes, distracted.
    I like the thirst-inducing weariness in my arms as I lift cases from lofty cupboards, Ilike the tang of old dust in my mouth as I empty and scour the endless bookshelves.
    But the doubts will not be entirely silenced. At least once a day I compare the history of the twins’ upbringing with the details of Lydia’s death. Is it possible, could it be possible, that we misidentified the daughter we lost?
    I don’t know.And so I am stalling. For the last two weeks whenever I’ve dropped Kirstie off at school, I’ve called her ‘darling’ and ‘Moomin’ and anything-but-her-real-name, because I am scared she will turn and give me her tranced, passive, blue-eyed stare and say I’m Lydia. Not Kirstie. Kirstie is dead. One of us is dead. We’re dead. I’m alive. I’m Lydia. How could you get that wrong, Mummy? How did you do that? How?

    And after that I get to work, to stop myself thinking.
    Today I am tackling the toughest job. As Angus has left, on an early flight to Scotland, preparing the way, and as Kirstieis in school – Kirstie Jane Kerrera Moorcroft – I am going to sort the loft. Where we keep what is left of Lydia. Lydia May Tanera Moorcroft .
    Standing under the hinged wooden trapdoor, I position the unfeasibly light aluminium stepladder, and pause. Helpless. Thinking again.
    Start from the beginning, Sarah Moorcroft. Work it out.
    Kirstie and Lydia.
    We gave the twins different-but-related names because we wanted to emphasize their individuality, yet acknowledge their unique twin status: just as all the books and websites advised. Kirstie was named thus by her dad, as it was his beloved grandmother’s name. Scottish, sweet, and lyrical.
    By way of equity, I was allowed to choose Lydia’s name. I made it classical, indeed ancient Greek. Lydia. I chose this partly because I love history, and partly because I am very fond of the name Lydia, and partly because it was not like Kirstie at all.
    I chose the second names, May and Jane, for my grandmothers. Angus chose the third names, for two little