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lowest branches were far from the ground. The girl hadn’t looked very tall.
    She’d been smart enough not to try the thick hanging roots that temptingly resembled rope but would rip straight from the tree and cover you in bark, twigs, leaves, figs, dead bugs, and, if you were really unlucky, bat shit if you tried to use them. Tom felt the friction of her fingertips and feet against the old bark, like a grasshopper walking on hessian. She found her way with toes and fingertips, using the strength of her legs and back to propel her upward. The girl’s eyes were closed, Tom realised, the hair standing up on the back of his neck.
    She’s done this before: not a normal thief. Was she like him?
    He opened his eyes. She was getting closer. He heard her T-shirt catching on one of the smaller branches.
    He saw her hands first, then her head and shoulders. She’s gorgeous, was Tom’s first thought. She looks just like Mere, was his second. She’s not white, his third.
    If she looked like Mere and climbed like that, then Tom was certain she was like Mere in other ways too, which meant she was just like him. Why had Mere never told him she had relatives? He’d thought he knew all Mere’s secrets.
    The girl sat with her back against the trunk, facing him, wiped her hands on her shorts, then her sleeve against her face. She was sweating and grinning widely, dead pleased with herself. Tom found himself grinning too.
    She stood carefully, avoiding the branches above. She stepped from one branch to the next, ducking to avoid being smacked in the face, until she reached the thick branch that stretched out over the back lane. Once she was over the back fence, she peered down.
    “Hello,” Tom said. He tried to sound as friendly as possible, worried she might jump down and run away.
    The girl started, almost lost her footing. “Bugger.”
    She grabbed a branch above her head to steady herself and looked down.
    “Hello,” Tom said again, a little louder this time. “Over here.”
    The girl turned. The expression on her face was a mixture of surprise and annoyance, as if she’d been caught, yet she didn’t run.
    “Hi,” Tom said. He pushed aside some of the bottlebrush so she could see him.
    “Oh, hi,” the girl said. She moved closer.
    “I saw you climbing out Mere’s window. I was wondering what you were doing.”
    “Bugger,” she said again. “How? How’d you see me?”
    “I was up here. In this tree, I mean.” Tom blushed, having no idea why. If anyone should be blushing, it should be her. “Mere lets me climb it.”
    The girl paused. “You mean Esmeralda?”
    “Oh, yeah. I always forget that’s her full name. No one ever calls her anything but Mere. Are you two relatives? You look just like her. I mean, except that you’re dark.” He blushed again. “Not that that’s a bad thing or anything.” Shut your mouth, Tom.
    “Esmeralda’s my grandmother.”
    “No,” Tom said with total disbelief. Of course she was related to Mere, so Mere must have kept things from him. Not just that she had a child but a granddaughter too. “Bull. No way. That’s impossible.”
    The girl said nothing, looking at him as if he were from some faraway planet.
    “Your grand mother.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Wow.” Tom realised that Mere had never told him how old she was. It shook him. What else didn’t he know about her? If she was a grandmother, then she was much older than he’d thought and how was that possible?
    “Don’t you have a grandmother?” the girl asked.
    “Huh? Yeah, of course. I’ve got two of them. But they’re really old and they don’t wear gorgeous clothes and they’re not beautiful.”
    “Esmeralda’s old. She’s forty-five.”
    Tom didn’t quite believe her. He’d thought Mere was maybe thirty. Tops. If she was that old already . . . Tom shook his head, not wanting to think about how long Mere had left. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t told him. “Anyway, that’s not grandmother old. My mum’s