“Thomas, who’s Thomas?”
“Thomas is her imaginary friend,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “The little chimney sweep boy she talks to in the fireplace.”
“He’s not imaginary,” Ada shot back. “He’s real, and he told me there’s a fire.”
“Ada, why didn’t you go and see Mummy if you’d had a bad dream.”
“It wasn’t a bad dream! I told you, Thomas is real. Mummy was burning those boring books with all those numbers in. She sent me to bed, and that’s when Thomas spoke to me. I went back down, but Mummy wouldn’t answer, and the door handle was hot.”
I had now lit some of the candles by Matthew’s bedside. Ones that hadn’t been distorted by being used for a different purpose for which they’d been made.
Matthew and I both peered forward at the child. “Ada, are you sure this wasn’t a dream? How would Thom
