Paula Hillman, author

After four years of querying my children’s novel, Look for me by Moonlight, I’m giving up. I’ve had one full request (followed by a rejection), and hundreds of form rejections, or simple ‘ghosting’ from agents and publishers. Publishing is a brutal industry, but I knew that from the start, and I’ve accepted that trying to write across age ranges is perhaps a bit greedy. So, here’s the first chapter of Moonlight…I’d love to know what people think.

Chapter one.
Wolf Moon.
Imagine a magical island tied to the mainland by a bridge, though you could swim the distance should you wish. There are secrets only Islanders know, saltwater running through their veins. Shingle beaches made from pastel pink shells and the blue of the ocean. And if you live on this island, you expect to be made from sunlight, moonlight, green earth, and silver stars, in love with everything outside. On a cold November night, you huddle, book in hand, cheeks scorched pink from a fire burning in the grate, your socked feet stretching out like a pair of kittens, seeking warmth.
And that’s where I am. Me. Belinda Booth, with sparrow-brown hair and a beaky face, curled up on our tatty sofa, reading and wondering if a pet might help with the hollow feeling I get when Grandpappy is out working on winter evenings. Going with him isn’t an option. He dislikes the thought of leaving Greenheart House —our solid, old home, in the centre of a park—empty.
On the hearth sit a pair of boots. My boots: the ones I am named for. They are ankle-high and fur-lined, with laces and mud in the treads. If they could speak, they might get me into trouble. But they can’t, so I’m safe.
I glance up as the back door opens. Grandpappy. He steps into the kitchen, dragging with him the perfume of a winter’s night.
‘It’s a cold one, to be sure,’ he says as he lifts a heavy black overcoat from his shoulders. ‘I’ve tried to fix the hole in the glasshouse roof, but the tiles keep slipping. That kettle warm yet, Boots?’
I put my book face down on the floor and flip my legs out from where they have been tucked. ‘Will you have tea or cocoa?’
Grandpappy opens his hands towards the jumping flames of the fire, hands that are lilac with cold. He is shaking.
‘Were you not wearing your mittens?’ I continue.
‘Sure, I was. But there is a smell out there tonight. Been trying to track it down, haven’t I? There was a need for bare hands, rummaging through shrubs and the like.’ Grandpappy’s shoulders hunch a little. I lean towards him.
‘A smell of what?’ I am worried now.
He runs a hand over his grizzled prickly chin. ‘Like a bit of dead something.’
My stomach tugs on itself. Dead? I need to get out there, smell it for myself, and see. ‘You can find out what the smell is in the morning. For now, I’ll make us cocoa, and we can take it to our beds. It’ll be warmer, won’t it?’
But that is not what I’m really thinking. Get him out of the way zips through my head. Then I can put on my boots and warmest coat and be out in the park myself. It is my place. My friends live there. Not the human type, not the ones that slide their eyes sideways and peer at my tatty clothes and even more tatty hair; I don’t have those types of friends. I once went to a school full of them, and what a strange place it had been: shut up in boxy rooms for hours at a time, listening to the murmuring voice of what someone told me was a teacher, trying to figure out why he was telling me things instead of showing.
From a shelf by the kitchen sink, I lift two blue-and-white striped mugs, put them on the table, and spoon dark cocoa powder into each one. The kettle on the stove is still warm. I pour a little water into each mug and stir up a chocolaty paste. Behind me, Grandpappy is moving about and humming softly.

‘I’ll heat the milk,’ I say. ‘Won’t be a minute.’ A line of greasy saucepans hangs from a rack above the sink. I reach up and choose the smallest one. There is milk, kept in a jug in the coolest part of the scullery; other people have fridges, I’ve heard.
While the milk hisses in the pan, I look out of the window and across our small garden, to the park. Dark comes early at this time of year, and presses against the window, beckoning me outside with its velvety arms. There is a silver disc of moon, scattering metallic light across the treetops. It should be enough to show me what is causing the strange smell. If it’s not, then Ren will have to help. Ren. The best of my friends.
On the stove, the milk pan gives off a sweet smell, like burnt caramel. I pour the hot froth into each mug and make a show of clinking the spoon as I stir. There is an itch at the back of my neck and in my feet. I need to be away. But first there will be the pretence of bed-time. Carefully, I pass Grandpappy his mug, then kiss him on the cheek. My lips touch cold.
‘I’m going up now.’ I lift my book and drink. ‘Don’t be long behind me, will you? I put a hot water bottle in your bed before you came in.’
He smiles. It is a soft smile, but I see tiredness there, too, like a shadow across the moon. Only his eyes escape; they glint, green as the ocean on a day in high summer.
‘Night, my love,’ he whispers. ‘Don’t suppose I’ll see you much before the sun’s high tomorrow. Sleep tight.’
I smile to myself as I creep up the stairs. There is a reason I never leave my bed before noon, and it is nothing to do with idleness.
In my room, I put my mug and book on the rickety bedside table and click on the lamp. It casts a jewelled pool of light at my feet. Chilled darkness hovers in the furthest corners, prickling its way across my shoulders. Bedtime loneliness washes over me again, as it has done on every night for as long as I can remember. In my brief time at school, I heard talk of parents, of brothers and sisters. I am old enough to understand that they must have existed for me, once: where they are now is anybody’s guess. That is what Grandpappy says, anyway.
There is a door to the attic in the furthest corner of my room, and a tall thin window with a ledge wide enough that I can huddle there and read in the light of the afternoon. Tonight, the cold has caused a pattern of icy arcs and leaves on the inside of the glass. Scratching at it covers my fingertips in tiny white jags. In the room next to me, Grandpappy will be washing his face in the basin and getting into his warmest pyjamas. I do the opposite: I pull one thick sweater from the muddle of clothing at the end of my bed, and then another. Both go on over my day clothes. As do two more pairs of socks and the knitted hat given to me by Mrs. Emms, the prickly lady who comes to make food for us and do the washing. There’s something about her I don’t like. She’s all do this, do that, without a kind word or suggestion of a book to read.
When I have put on as much of my clothing as I can without fainting from the sheer weight of it, I flick back the top sheet and blankets from my bed, plump up the pillow and climb in. I make a blankety book-stand with my knees and another pillow, then position my copy of Moongazing exactly where I want it. The cocoa is lukewarm, but it will help pass the time. Grandpappy is a creature of habit. Within half an hour he will be dozing in the comfortable nest of his bed. Within an hour he will be in a deep sleep. Until then, all I can do is wait.