‘Tell a story, Harry. Not from a book. Tell a story from your head. A real one.’
‘A real one?’
‘Um.’
‘Okay, Peg.’ I thought about it for a minute. ‘Once upon a time, there was an old man called Geppetto.’
‘That’s a funny name.’
‘And Geppetto found a magical piece of wood that – guess what? – could laugh and cry.’
She gave me a dubious smile.
‘Really?’
‘Honestly.’
‘You’re making this up, Harry,’ she said, her smile growing.
‘I’m not, Peg,’ I said, smiling back at her. ‘Every single word is true. And from that piece of magic wood – guess what? – Geppetto made Pinocchio.’
‘Who was Pinocchio?’
‘He was a puppet, Peg. Just this piece of wood that could act like a human. He could laugh and cry and everything. But what he wanted, more than anything in the world, was to be a real dad.’
Did I say dad?
I meant boy.
Pinocchio wanted to be a real boy.
seven (#ulink_bfa11784-16cb-56a1-8339-764f46221f58)
‘Only twice in your life do they pronounce you anything,’ Eamon said. ‘The first is man and wife. The second is dead.’
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