Having run away from home, Hope Weller faints, only to wake up in the house of a strange boy with mesmerising chocolate eyes.
“So, where am I exactly?” I ask.
“My house. Number seven Treneor close, Cleadon village,
he chuckles awkwardly. “You know? It’s that dreary little island off the coast of
Europe that’s always raining.” I frown, ignoring his bad attempt at a joke. Cleadon village is just over a forty minute drive away from my own small city: Sunderland.
“And,” I continue. “Who are you?”
The corner of his mouth twitches upwards. “Ash,” he says.
Falkland. Now, it’s only fair you tell me who you are.”
“My name’s Hope.”
“Odd name,” he comments.
“You’re the one named after a tree.”
For a second his eyes, a dark sepia, glow with amusement. And try as I might, I can't force down the dry laugh that escapes my chapped lips, even though the truth is all I want to do is scream.