Chapter 1
Fourteen and a half years after my father vanished, I find his coat beneath the Old Exe Bridge.
It hangs from the shoulders of a stranger warming his hands over a barrel fire, the faded pink patches at the elbows unmistakable.
I stitched them myself when I was five—crooked little scraps of my own dress that have held up better than most new coats.
Exeter roars above us, carts rattling over stone and merchants crying their wares, but the world narrows to that shallow bowl of earth carved beneath the bridge… and the coat that belongs to someone else.
I always promise myself I won’t chase ghosts, for he’s not been spotted here in nearly fifteen years.
Yet there is his coat.
On another man.
The stranger
takes a woman’s wrap and pulls at loose threads, knotting them together with quick precision. She seems to offer him thanks, which he barely notices. He turns to a small knot of young lads, placing a hand on one of their shoulders and leveling a gaze at one in particular as he speaks with him.
Then he looks up. The man stiffens when he sees me and I realize I’ve been staring.
He hunches his shoulders in Papa’s coat, that stranger, watches me for a moment more, then vanishes into the shadows beneath the old medieval brick arches.
I stiffen at the vague sense of loss and snap to attention. “Wait!”
Bracing myself against slipping, I maneuver down the snowy hill toward the encampment, scanning for that tall form hunched over the fire, but he isn’t here. I turn in the ankle-deep snow, dodging scattered belongings and people huddled together, scanning faces.
With a sigh, I turn to climb up the hill again, scanning faces and—there he is.
He’s moving quickly. On the other side of the bridge, a scuffle has broken out.
A shout and a grunt sound, and the man in the frock coat slides between two feuding vagrants, holding them apart with one hand to each chest, taking their blows like an oak.
Who is this man?
Even from a distance, I feel his solidness, the way one simply knows before biting down on a ring that you’ve found gold. Ducking behind an arch, I hover and watch, not letting that coat out of my sight.
Then a stray blow strikes the man’s face.
“You there—stop!” I’m compelled toward him, heart thudding, boots slipping on packed snow.
His head shoots up and he fixes that penetrating gaze on me without shame or humility. He’s actually quite magnificent.
Before I can gather my wits, a whistle splits the winter air and officers stream down the hill.
The panic on the stranger’s face is obvious.
Intense. In a split second he places one palm on each chest of the feuding men, shoves them backward into the snow, and bolts.
Chaos erupts as ragged bodies scramble to escape, colliding and crying out.
The police officers grab men by their collars, throwing down whoever comes within reach.
Including him.
I slide back behind the bridge’s arch, watching. Pleading.
But then that black frock coat twists and springs up, spraying snow as the wearer scrambles for escape. His face is ghostly white as he dodges the officers grasp and sprints toward the bridge.
Toward me.
My breath catches. Time is suspended for a moment as the stranger comes flying toward me, coattails flying, wilted lapels flapping against his chest.
There are dark shadows on the earth, Dickens wrote, but its lights are stronger in the contrast.
I am a moth, and it has been a long time since I’ve seen light.
Without thinking, I grab a fistful of that frock coat as it flies by, and yank.
He lands on all fours on my boots, scrambling to run again, but I shove him toward the crumbling church tower still perched on top of the bridge.
“Go. Hide.” I turn away, praying he goes up those steps, yet feeling a panicked sense of loss as he vanishes from sight.
That sliver of hope I came to find this night goes with him.