Sophie stared into the screen.
The photo had been tagged at Rabscuttle Hall, Freya leaving through the main doors for the drama of a good Insta post – framed by heavy wood and brass panels, bathed in a warm and comforting glow before she stepped into the night.
She’d been dreading that shift. Sophie had sent a message asking how it was going, and Freya had answered with a brief: I survived xxx
Not knowing how to take such a short answer, Sophie had done what she always did and replied with something light and breezy – a sign that she was happy to listen if Freya wanted to talk.
Only she hadn’t wanted to talk.
At all.
130 days since that photo was posted and Sophie hadn’t heard a word.
Today was the last day before GCSEs began, a day of stupid awards in assembly and messing around in lessons, of signed shirts and pranks the school had strictly forbidden. Stuff she and Freya should be doing together, not a hundred miles apart.
The sound of Mum returning had Sophie popping her phone into the pocket of her school skirt, ready to stand up and clear away what was left of her cereal.
“That man.” Mum fanned herself with the parcel she was holding. “I’d take a special delivery from him any day of the week and twice on Sundays. Make sure you thank whoever sent this.”
She held out a parcel bound in plain brown paper. Sophie’s name, Sophie’s address…
Freya’s handwriting.
WIN
Buckthorn sixth form common room was filled with break-time buzz and the rustle of crisp packets circulating round the group sprawled over the comfy chairs.
“Win! Someone looking for you!”
Win looked up from where she’d been sitting alone in the corner, Converse resting on the edge of the coffee table, phone propped on her thighs as she paused the video her friend Felix had sent.
The lad who’d called her name pointed to the door.
The someone looking for her was a girl yet to graduate from the Buckthorn green-and-white-and-gold into the heady uniform-free life of a sixth former. She crossed the room, ignoring the way she caught the attention of Sam Baker and his mates as she passed, and came to a standstill in front of Win.
“Hi. So, this is weird, but I’m Sophie.” Then she added, “Charbonneau.”
Win already knew Sophie Charbonneau as a pretty face in a crowded corridor, freckles blurring the surface of her skin, the most elegant arch at the apex of her eyebrows, and cascading flames of red hair. A girl for whom Win’s breath hitched, even as she squashed any notion of something more.
“I would say I’m Win, but we already established that.” Win raised her eyebrows, not quite sure what to expect. “And I can help you … how?”
“So long as you’re Winnie Su?” Win nodded. Win was, indeed, short for Winnie. “I’ve to give you this.”
Sophie swung her bag round to get something out. Win had never been close enough to notice the line of slightly darker freckles that sat along Sophie Charbonneau’s top lip or the bump on the bridge of her nose. A second later she produced a brown paper parcel from inside her bag – only she held it close a moment, giving Win one last, wary look.
“You did know Freya Newmarch, right?”
“I did.” This made a little more sense. Sort of. “She lived next door.”
“Well, this is from her.” And Sophie held out a parcel with the name “Winnie Su” written in smooth strokes of black pen across the front. It was a satisfying size, lighter than it looked and slightly squishy.
A beat after she’d handed it over, Sophie sat on the coffee table, leaning forward, brown eyes melting to amber in the sun filtering in from the window.
Win’s breath did the thing.
“It arrived this morning at my house,” Sophie said. “The first layer was addressed to me, but when I opened it, there was one for you inside – and a note.”
Win had already noticed the thin, grey fingerless gloves Sophie was wearing – odd for this time of year – but she made no comment as Sophie reached inside the palm of her right glove and produced a piece of paper that she then handed over.
Hey Soph, pass this along would you? There’s treasure at the end, promise. F x
Same writing as on the front of Win’s parcel.
“Treasure?” Win looked again at the parcel, then back at Sophie, who took the note and shrugged.
“In pass the parcel the biggest prize is the one in the middle, right?”
“Was that all there was? A note and another layer to unwrap?”
“Biggest prize” made it sound like there might be others, and Win preferred to have all her information up front.
Sophie pressed her lips together a second, then looked down as she tucked a finger beneath the wrist of her left glove.
“There was this too,” she said, and she hooked out a fine silver bracelet, each link so delicate that the chain moved like a trickle of water against the inside of Sophie’s wrist. “It used to belong to Freya.”
Win recognised the arrow-shaped clasp that formed the only detail on the chain. She’d once asked Freya if she could have a closer look at how it worked – that had been the only time Win had seen her take it off.
Sophie might not have noticed that Win was Freya’s neighbour, but Win had walked ten paces behind those two on enough Fridays after school to remember the way they laughed and gossiped. She’d seen Freya loop her arm in Sophie’s and rest her head on her shoulder as they walked, years of comfort in one single gesture.
“That’s a really lovely thing to send you,” she said.
“Yeah, well…” Sophie trailed off, before sitting up a little straighter, the confidence with which she’d come over returning as she looked at the parcel. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
“Not right now.” If there was a present beneath this paper as personal as that bracelet, Win didn’t want to find out what it was in front of an audience. “I’ll open it later.”
There was an air of thwarted expectation in the way Sophie looked at the parcel in Win’s hand, a pinch of her brows and tightening in her jaw.
“In that case…” Sophie pulled out a permanent marker from the front pocket of her bag – standard issue for Year 11 shirt-signing the last day before exams. Leaning over, Sophie’s hair fell forward, profile pale against the curtain of curls as she wrote her number on the paper of Freya’s parcel.
Capping the pen, she stood, saying, “If there’s treasure in the middle, I want in.”
She shouldered her bag and held up a hand, waving as she left. Everything about her, from the tilt of her chin to the way she spoke, exuded the kind of confidence that came from never having to make an effort. She expected people to do what she wanted because that’s what they always did.
Same as Freya.
April – 245 days before Freya left
The first person Win had come out to in person was her sister – 88 minutes into what must have been their fifth viewing of Thor: Ragnarok. They were on Win’s bed, her laptop balanced on a pile of GCSE revision guides she had no intention of opening. It was February and mocks had finished the week before; revision for the real thing could wait. Just for a day.