Mist & Whispers Read Free Page A

second-to-last page of a spiral-bound notebook.
    Anya Belacqua . No . Slice.
    Anya Mortmain . No . Slice.
    Anya Lovegood . Oh, really no! It had sounded whimsical on the character from Harry Potter, but on her it sounded like a porn star. Slice.
    She glanced up at the calendar, thoroughly frustrated with herself. It had been nearly a whole year since her sixteenth birthday and yet, she still hadn’t changed her ridiculous name.
    Ever since she had discovered it was possible, Anya had made it her life’s mission to drop the name the home had given her as a baby. Not Anya ; that was the only real thing she knew about herself, her first name. No, it was her surname she desperately wanted rid of. It was bad enough being “ that girl” from the Piddling Children’s Home, the poor girl abandoned at birth, but to be named after the home’s founder – Martha Piddling – well, even the coolest of kids would have found it hard to live down.
    She wondered whether they did it out of spite; surely any adult that had attended a public school would have known the sort of torture a kid would go through with a name like that? Couldn’t they have called her something cool, like Mortensen or Riordan – hell, Doe would have been less embarrassing!
    She’d had the Deed Poll forms ready to be filled in the moment she turned sixteen, along with ten week’s worth of school-dinner money she’d saved to pay the fees. Every time she looked at the forms she daydreamed about what her new name could be, listing her ideas in the notebook and crossing them through when she decided they weren’t right.
    She looked down at the last name on the list, the only one that hadn’t been run through with her Sharpie.
    Anya Jo March .
    It sounded good. It sounded classic. The only thing with it was, as great as it sounded, and as much as she adored the novel it came from, it still wasn’t her name.
    Slice.
     
    SHE MADE HER way down to the kitchen, poured herself a cup of tea then curled up on the sofa in the day room. One by one, she flicked through the channels on the TV, not really knowing what would be on so early in the morning on a weekday. Property auction show – antique auction show – debate show discussing the current wet summer in Britain – another auction show. She hadn’t realised what a dizzying line up she’d been missing during all those years at school.
    ‘No exams today, Anya?’ Simon, the manager of the home, came strolling into the day room. In one hand he carried an oversized spoon and in the other, a bowl, filled to spilling point with Swiss muesli and milk. He sat down on the sofa next to her, taking great care not to drop a single oat.
    ‘No, I had my last one yesterday. My summer has officially started.’ She flicked the channel again and found the news. The presenter was standing outside a Chronicles Book Superstore, microphone in hand and interviewing a snub-nosed man wearing a tan coloured suit. His hair would have only been a few shades lighter than her own had it not been for his heinous misuse of hair products.
    She stared at the screen, paying no attention to Simon’s chatter beside her. It wasn’t just any Chronicles store he was standing in front of; it was the store in Little Wolf Green, Scott’s only rival.
    ‘Are you really watching this?’ Simon said, nudging her arm.
    ‘Shush a minute, that’s in the town!’ She shifted to the edge of the sofa and watched intently.
    ‘And how did it feel when you made the discovery at Erimus Hall only those few months ago?’ the news presenter said. She could see his eyes roaming across the camera as he read from a teleprompter.
    ‘Oh, it was just this incredible moment. There was this overwhelming sense of importance, like I knew I had found something of real historic value before I even knew exactly what they were.’
    ‘Come on, Anya, it’s just about those old books. I’ve heard the story a million times over the last few weeks; I’m bored of it now.