Excerpt from Almost Life by Kiran Millwood Hargrave, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Part One
1978-1979

Chapter One

They met on the steps of the Sacré-Cœur beneath a sky of the most fierce and unerring blue, so without variation or hesitation it was as though a painter had brushed cerulean across the horizon, no shade or blight anywhere, yet undeniably a cover up. Or perhaps it was only so blue by contrast to the dome and cupolas of the Sacré-Cœur, which too seemed arranged, virgin white paper cut out and laid across the perfect wash of the sky.

Laure was reading and smoking on the left staircase, her long legs thrust out before her, her prematurely greying hair flipped over and hanging across her narrow face. Erica approached, sweating from the ascent through Montmartre's cobbles in her polyester skirt printed with great bunching florals, rippling and sticking to her thighs. She swears it was the right staircase, remembers turning to her left to look up at the dome pinned against the sky. Smoke in her eyes, an instinctive irritation that did not serve her well in Paris. Each will remember it differently, but on this fact they agree: it was Erica who smiled first, and said—

'Bonjour.'

Laure did not smile easily at the best of times. She was hungover, and the walk in the July swelter to this reading spot a punishment she was still recovering from, a pilgrimage to atone for the previous night's sins. She had not expected to meet an angel at the basilica's steps, only to read and watch people and grouse inwardly at the tourists swarming her city. But when she looked up, this girl was singularly beautiful. Long auburn hair, tanned skin, a hint of Laforêt in the wide set of her eyes, her askance doe demeanour. These judgements Laure made rapidly and without self-awareness. She was adamant she did not set much store by appearance. Everything about hers was calculated to suggest this, from her man's shirt to her grey trousers, a little short at the ankles. Her hair was lank and stank of beer and smoke, but she was aware of the girl's – the tourist's – nervous expression as she tried again, her accent stronger, more careful, and knew she was experiencing what Michel called Laure's ravissement, the strong and slightly terrifying aura Laure exerted as though she were a wolf pinning a prey animal.

'Bonjour.'

'Hi.'

'Je m'appelle Erica.'

Laure raised her eyebrows. 'Laure. English?'

'Yes,' said the girl, with a slump of disappointment and relief. And then, a flare of defiance: 'Française?'

Laure did smile then. 'Parisienne.'

She did not find tourists charming, and certainly not English ones, but she thought this girl darling. How old was she? Seventeen? Her skin glowed that undeniable golden that came from youth and health, true health from walks outdoors and sleeping well and eating vegetables and not drinking. Laure did none of these things, except walk when she wanted to punish herself. Her particular, slouching thinness came from these frequent atonements and from her father, who ate butter as though it was a sin to leave a scraping in the dish and was rangy as a whippet. Her build bought her a certain kind of cache – that rapture Michel alluded to – but Laure knew she smoked too much, drank too much, ate too little with colour, or indeed anything that was not bread and butter. Her skin broke out around her bleeds, her jaw rough and bumpy, and her face looked grey in early light.

She propped her glasses onto her chin, an affectation also learned from her father, and looked more squarely at the girl. 'Yes.'

'Je suis ravie de vous rencontrer.'

'No,' said Laure. 'You would say, enchanté. Or, ravi.'

'Ravi,' repeated Erica, her mouth parting to show a kittenpink tongue, white teeth. Laure ran her own furred tongue over her own furred teeth, took another drag on her roll-up and blew the smoke out in a pointed stream. Erica scrunched up her nose, and Laure knew she was a thought away from coughing and wafting her hand.

Excerpted from Almost Life by Kiran Millwood Hargrave. Copyright © 2026 by Kiran Millwood Hargrave. Excerpted by permission of Summit Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.