Birdsong

By Katya Balen and Richard Johnson

Following a traumatic accident, a special friendship helps talented musician Annie heal and rediscover her love of music in this stunning novella from celebrated author Katya Balen.

The blackbirds’ song uplifts and restores in this captivating novella from one of the most exciting voices in children’s fiction.

After a devastating car crash, Annie is unable to play her flute and retreats from the music she’s always loved.

She exists in a world of angry silence – furious with her mum and furious she can’t seem to play her beloved flute any more.

Then she meets Noah, who shows her the blackbirds’ nest hidden in the scrubland near their flats. As their friendship grows, the blackbirds’ glorious song reignites Annie’s passion for music. But when tragedy strikes again, will her fragile progress be put at risk?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins UK
• Release date: Jul 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781800901605

Katya Balen

Katya Balen is an award-winning author of books for children. Her debut novel, The Space We're In, was highly commended for the Branford Boase Award, October, October won the Yoto Carnegie Medal and the UKLA Book Award, and The Light in Everything was shortlisted for the Yoto Carnegie Medal. When she's not writing books, Katya likes to scroll through dog-rescue websites, bake and attempt to keep her house plants alive. She lives in London with her partner and their dog.

Book preview

Cover: Birdsong by Katya Balen

For the Aberbachs

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Copyright

There is music everywhere – if you know how to listen.

I’m walking home and I hear notes in the tap of my feet on the pavement and the fizz of a can of Coke. I can find music in the whoosh of our front door opening and in Mum calling my name. I can fit the notes that I hear together and they build into a symphony. A symphony of sounds that swirl and swish and lift me up like I’m flying. Mostly.

But not when the music is the sound of glass breaking.

Not when it’s the sound of metal crumpling.

Not when it’s the sound of tyres screeching.

Not when it’s the sound of me screaming.

Seven months ago, everything was fine. Better than fine, I think. It was almost perfect, even if I didn’t realise it at the time. I wasn’t full of fury and always angry at Mum. She had a job and we owned our house and whenever anything went a bit wrong, I could pick up my flute and play.

When I played, the whole world faded away. I could forget arguments at school or Maths tests covered in red pen or the dog next door barking into the night. Playing the flute was like magic. I could see the music. It made colours everywhere.

Then the crash happened. And everything changed.

After the crash, I woke up from the operation and all I could see were bandages and needles and black stitches in my skin that looked like teeth.

I tried to lift my water glass but my fingers wouldn’t obey.

I tried to button my pyjamas but my fingers wouldn’t obey.

I tried to lift my flute but it felt like I’d lost everything.

When I get home, I find Mum in the living room labelling packing boxes with a pen as black