Chapter One

In Which Alice Arrives Properly, Though Not Entirely on Purpose

Alice discovered that falling into Ballykillduff was not at all like falling into a hole.

There was no rushing wind, no spinning cupboards, no floating bookshelves or jars of marmalade. Instead, there was the distinct sensation of being lowered, as though the ground itself were doing its best to be polite about the whole affair.

The earth sighed again, thoughtfully, and then stopped.

Alice found herself standing upright on a narrow stone path, her boots perfectly clean, her hair only slightly rumpled, and her sense of direction completely missing.

Above her was a sky that could not quite decide what time it was. Clouds hovered in pale layers, some tinged with early morning pink, others sulking in late afternoon grey. A sun of modest ambition shone through the middle, as if unwilling to commit itself fully.

Ahead lay Ballykillduff.

Up close, it was even more ordinary than before. That, Alice felt, was the problem.

A row of cottages leaned together in a way that suggested ongoing conversation. Their windows blinked slowly, like eyes that had just woken up. Smoke curled from chimneys without any particular urgency, drifting sideways and then upwards as though reconsidering.

Alice took one careful step forward.

Nothing happened.

She took another.

Still nothing.

“Well,” she said to herself, “that is either very reassuring or extremely suspicious.”

A man appeared from nowhere in particular, which is to say he stepped out from behind a low stone wall that Alice was quite certain had not been there a moment earlier.

He was tall, thin, and wrapped in a long coat that had known many weathers and disagreed with all of them. In his hand he carried a pocket watch, which he examined with great seriousness.

He did not look at Alice.

“Oh dear,” he muttered. “Not yet. Definitely not yet.”

“Excuse me,” Alice said.

The man startled so badly that he nearly dropped the watch, which he caught just in time and then scolded.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he said to Alice. “Appearing suddenly.”

“I didn’t,” Alice replied. “You did.”

He considered this.

“Well,” he said at last, “we’ll call it a draw.”

He finally looked at her, his eyes sharp and kind and far too alert for someone who seemed permanently behind schedule.

“You’re early,” he said.

“Am I?” Alice asked.

“Oh yes,” he said firmly. “Or late. One of the two. We get very upset if people arrive exactly when they mean to.”

“What is your name?” Alice asked.

“Seamus Fitzgerald,” he said, consulting his watch again. “At least, that’s what it says here. And you are Alice.”

Alice blinked. “How do you know that?”

Seamus smiled apologetically. “You’ve been expected.”

“I have only just arrived,” Alice said.

“Yes,” Seamus agreed. “That’s what I mean.”

Before Alice could ask anything else, a bell rang.

It was not a loud bell, nor an urgent one. It sounded as though it had rung many times before and had learned not to get worked up about it.

Seamus gasped.

“Oh dear,” he said. “That will be Bridget.”

“Who is Bridget?” Alice asked.

Seamus was already walking away.

“You’ll see,” he said over his shoulder. “Everybody does.”

Alice followed him into the village.

As she did, she noticed that the houses were watching her now, not rudely, but with the quiet interest one might show a guest who had arrived without luggage and clearly intended to stay.

Somewhere behind her, the sheep coughed.

Alice did not turn around.

She had a feeling that once you began turning around in Ballykillduff, you might never stop.

And that, she suspected, was how the village liked it.

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