There had been no calls to make, little cleaning to do, and few things she needed to pack, but still, sleep had remained elusive. So, wide awake, she had read. And rather than turning to her present favorites, she opened the pages of stories from her childhood: The Tale of Ginger and Pickles, The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, and, of course, The Tale of Peter Rabbit among other Potter stories; poetry by Wordsworth and Coleridge; and Ransome’s Swallows and Amazons. All Lake District writers. She felt them drawing her closer and closer to her father and the latest Birthday Book buried in her suitcase. She hadn’t read it; she hadn’t opened it. Part of her hated each book that arrived, with no note or message and probably sent book rate to save money, while another part, equally powerful, cherished each and eagerly awaited its arrival. That part she hated more. She climbed out of bed and slid the book free, rubbing her fingers across the envelope’s postmark. Bowness-on-Windermere. At six o’clock in the morning Lucy found herself dressed and stiff and nervous, standing in Helen’s lobby.
