“Yes. Like that.” She nods enthusiastically.

“Well, that makes sense. I’ve heard that many accomplished musicians are synesthetes. Do you see anything else in color?”

She looks puzzled.

“Letters? Numbers?”

“No. Just music.”

“Wow. That’s really something.” I give her a smile. “I meant what I said the other day. You can use my piano anytime. I love hearing you play.”

She gives me a glorious smile that I feel in my groin. “Okay,” she whispers. “I like to play your piano.”

“I like to listen.” I grin back, and we fall into an easy silence.

* * *

Forty minutes later I turn in to a cul-de-sac in Brentford and we arrive outside a modest semidetached house. Night has fallen, but I see a curtain pull back in the front room and a young man’s face clearly visible in the light from the streetlamp.

Her boyfriend?

Fuck. I have to know.

“Is that your boyfriend?” I ask, and my heart kick-starts, thumping in my ears as I wait for her answer.

She laughs, a soft, musical laugh that makes me grin. It’s the first time I’ve heard her laugh, and I want to hear it again…and again.

“No. That’s Michal, Magda’s son. He’s fourteen.”

“Oh. He’s tall!”

“He is.” Her face lights up, and I feel a momentary pang of jealousy. She’s obviously fond of him. “This is Magda’s house.”

“I see. Is she a friend?”

“Yes. She is a friend of my mother. They are…how do you say? Pen friends.”

“I didn’t know those still existed. Do they visit each other?”

“No.” She presses her lips together and examines her fingernails. “Thank you for taking me to my home,” she whispers, shutting down that conversation.

“It was a pleasure, Alessia. I’m sorry about this morning. I didn’t mean to pounce on you.”

“Pounce?”

“Um…jump. Like a cat.”

She laughs again, her face shining and beautiful.

I could get used to that sound.

“You were dreaming,” she says.

Of you.

“Do you want to come in and drink a cup of tea?”

It’s my turn to laugh. “No. I’ll spare you that. And I’m more of a coffee person.”

She frowns for a moment. “We have some coffee,” she says.

“I’d better get back. It will take a while with the roads like this.”

“Thank you again for driving me here.”

“I’ll see you on Friday.”

“Yes. Friday.” She gives me a radiant smile that illuminates her lovely face, and I’m smitten.

She climbs out of the car and heads to the front door. It cracks open, shedding a soft glow onto the snowy path, and the tall young man stands on the doorstep. Michal. He scowls at me as I start the car.

I laugh.

Not her boyfriend, then, and I turn the Discovery around, crank the music up, and with a ridiculous smile plastered on my face drive back into London.

Chapter Eight

“Who was that?” Michal asks, his voice clipped and frosty, as he glares at the vehicle outside. He’s only fourteen, but he towers over Alessia, all shaggy black hair and skinny loose limbs.

“My boss,” she answers as she peeks through the front door to watch the car drive away. She shuts the door behind her and, unable to contain her glee, gives Michal a quick, spontaneous hug.

“All right.” Michal shrugs out of her embrace, his face flushed but his brown eyes bright with embarrassed delight. Alessia beams at him, and his answering shy smile hints at his adolescent crush on her. She steps back, careful not to be overly affectionate. She doesn’t want to hurt his feelings. After all, he and his mother have been good to her.

“Where’s Magda?” she asks.

“In the kitchen.” His face falls, and so does his voice. “Something’s not right. She’s smoking a lot.”

“Oh, no.” Alessia’s pulse quickens with a sense of foreboding. Taking off her coat, she hangs it on one of the pegs in the small hallway and goes into the kitchen. Magda is holding a cigarette, sitting at the tiny Formica table. The smoke curls above her in a hazy cloud. Though small, the kitchen is neat and tidy as usual, and the radio is burbling in Polish in the background. Magda looks up, relieved to see her.

“You got home through the snow. I was worried. Good day?” Magda asks, but Alessia notices her strained smile and the tension in her lips as she takes a long drag from her cigarette.

“Yes. Are you okay? Is your fiancé okay?”

Magda is a few years younger than Alessia’s mother, though usually she looks at least ten years younger. Blond and curvy, with hazel eyes that sparkle with her wicked sense of humor, she rescued Alessia from the streets. Today, though, she looks tired, her skin pallid and her lips pinched. The kitchen stinks of cigarette smoke, which Magda normally hates—even as a smoker herself.

She blows smoke into the room. “Yes. He’s fine. It’s nothing to do with him. Shut the door and sit down,” she says. A tremor runs up Alessia’s spine. Perhaps Magda is going to ask her to leave. She shuts the kitchen door, pulls out the plastic chair, and sits.

“Some men from the immigration department were here today looking for you.”

Oh, no.

Alessia pales, and she hears the blood hammering in her ears.

“It was after you left for work,” Magda adds.

“Wh-wh-what…what did you tell them?” she stutters as she tries to still the trembling in her hands.

“I didn’t speak with them. Mr. Forrester from next door did. They knocked on his door because we were not here. He did not like the look of them and told them he had never heard of you. He said that Michal and I were away in Poland.”

“Did they believe him?”

“Yes. Mr. Forrester thinks so. They left.”

“How did they find me?”

“I don’t know.” Magda makes a face. “Who knows how these things work?” She takes another drag from her cigarette. “I have to write to your mother.”

“No!” Alessia grasps Magda’s hand. “Please.”

“I’ve already written and told her that you arrived safely. That was a lie.”

Alessia flushes. Magda does not know the full story of her journey to Brentford. “Please,” she says. “I don’t want to worry her.”

“Alessia, if they catch you, you’ll be deported to Albania—” Magda stops.

“I know,” Alessia whispers, and a trickle of sweat runs down her spine as fear tightens her throat. “I cannot go back,” she mouths.

“You realize that Michal and I are leaving in two weeks. You have to find somewhere else to stay.”

“I know. I know. I’ll find something.” Anxiety flutters in Alessia’s stomach. Every night she lies in bed going through her options. So far she has saved three hundred pounds from her cleaning work. She will need the money for a deposit on a room. With Michal’s help and the use of his laptop, she will try to find a place to live.

“I’ll get supper started,” Magda says with a sigh as she stubs out her cigarette. The smoke swirls out of the ashtray, blending with the tension in the room.

“Let me help,” Alessia responds.

* * *

Later Alessia is huddled on her cot, staring at the ceiling. With her fingers she worries the gold cross she wears around her neck. The light from the streetlamp shines through the sheer curtains across the old, peeling wallpaper. Her mind races as she tries not to panic. Earlier, after an hour searching online, she’d found a room in a house that is near Kew Bridge station. Magda says that it’s not far from here. Alessia has an appointment to see it on Friday evening when she’s back from cleaning the Mister’s apartment. She can barely afford it, but she needs to move, especially if the immigration department is catching up with her. She cannot be deported. She cannot go back to Albania.

She cannot.

She turns over to escape the shaft of light and snuggles up in the thin duvet to preserve as much warmth as she can. Thoughts swirl in her head, overwhelming her. She wants them to stop.

Don’t think about Albania.

Don’t think about this journey.

Don’t think about the other girls…about Bleriana.

She closes her eyes, and immediately she sees the Mister asleep on the sofa, his hair a mess, his lips parted. She remembers lying on him. She remembers his swift kiss. She imagines that she’s lying on him again, inhaling his scent and kissing his skin and feeling the steady beat of his heart against her breast.

I missed you.

She groans.

Every night he occupies her thoughts. He is handsome. More than handsome—he is beautiful and kind.

I love hearing you play.

He drove her home. He didn’t have to do that.

You could stay here.

Stay with him?

Perhaps she could ask him for help.

No. Her situation is her problem. It’s not of her making, but it’s one she must deal with. She has made it this far on nothing but her ingenuity. And there’s no way in hell she’s going back to Kuk?s. Not to him.

He’s shaking me hard. Stop this. Stop this now.

No. Don’t think of him!

He’s the reason she’s in England. She has put as many miles as she can between them.

Think of the Mister. Only the Mister.

Her hand travels down her body.

Think only of him….