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frank against their exuberance to see it had come from Blantyre. Malawi.

3
Between continents, June 6th
    Lexy stretched her legs out in front of her and flexed her ankles, mirroring the diagrams for health in the air she’d seen in the in-flight magazine, before bringing her feet back to the footrest and realigning her body in the large seat until she was settled and comfortable. She was grinning like a child with candyfloss, but she didn’t care. An upgrade to First Class. Things like this never happened to her. But then again, she’d never done anything quite this impetuous before. She’d taken it as a good sign, a sign she was doing the right thing. Not that it mattered if she wasn’t. She didn’t have to explain herself to anyone any more. Her throat tightened. There was no one left who would expect her to explain.
    No. She wasn’t going to think like that, feel sorry for herself, feel abandoned and alone. She was doing this so she wouldn’t be alone. She was going to find … what exactly? Her mother’s … stepbrother? She wasn’t sure there was much of a legal relationship, if any, but Ursula had given birth to one and mothered the other, so there was a connection, and that was all that mattered.
    Willing herself to push thoughts of her mother to the back of her mind, she picked up the glass she’d just accepted from the stewardess, held the cool stem and raised it to the window as if tipping a farewell toast to the sun setting over London behind her.
    Malawi, here I come.
    She sipped the champagne, savouring the froth of bubbles exploding on her tongue, tingling like the excitement she’d felt when she’d walked out of the travel agent in central Edinburgh yesterday with her itinerary in her hand, subduing a sense of alarm at the amount of money she’d just spent by telling herself this was exactly the point of credit cards. This morning she’d been on a train to London, stopped at the flat just long enough to find her passport, pack a bag and put a note through Mrs B’s door asking her to hold on to the box Danny had left, and then took the Tube to the airport. Easy. Frighteningly easy.
    It wasn’t until she’d checked in and gone through security that she’d had a moment to think. Should she be doing this? Why was she doing this? Because of a letter from someone she’d never met, to a woman she hadn’t seen in more than twenty years? Because she had nothing better to do with the long summer holiday stretching ahead of her than deal with the aftermath of bereavement? Or because she was terrified that if she stood still long enough the full enormity of the last couple of weeks would break over her and bury her in blackness?
    She’d stopped dead in the corridor near the boarding gate, paralysed by panic.
    “Hey, careful!” someone had growled behind her and then a heavy man sidestepped past with exaggerated effort, turning to walk backwards for a couple of steps so he could shake his head and glare at her. She’d just stood there, petrified, as other passengers navigated their way round her like water round stone. She didn’t have to go, she told herself. She could turn around and go home. To her empty flat. To her mother’s empty house. No one was waiting for her, just as no one was forcing her to get on that plane. Whatever she did, it was her choice, her decision.
    And that was all she’d needed. The recognition that she was in control, was free to choose, calmed her. She chose to get on the plane even if it did feel a bit like running away. So what? No one needed to know. And everything would still be waiting for her when she got back, so if she wanted to go to Malawi, why shouldn’t she? It had been where her parents met, where Ursula had worked, where so much of the history of her little family had been forged, and she was curious now, now that there was no one left to tell her about it. Strange that the idea of visiting had never occurred to her before, that her mother had never