A poignant, modern love story about a young widow and widower and the two ghosts that bring them together because although love changes form, it never dies. “Heart-stoppingly romantic.”— The Express (UK) Two couples. Four unfinished lives. A love that transcends space and time. Rasmus and Jay, Róisín and Nico: two couples, strangers to each other. Two beautiful, ordinary love stories, cut short. Both in their thirties and too young to be widowed, Róisín swears she still feels Nico beside her in bed and Rasmus hears Jay as he writes songs at the piano. Jay and Nico don’t even believe in ghosts, yet here they still are. Still in love with Rasmus and Róisín. And maddeningly powerless. Until Jay has an idea that Nico wants no part of—bringing Róisín and Rasmus together. It’s crazy enough that it just might work, but playing matchmaker to the living is no easy feat and one that will require all four of them to discover the meaning of love after loss, and the importance of fighting for happiness against all odds. Moving and thought-provoking, playful and bittersweet, Twelve Months and a Day asks what is love? And what are we to do with it? People ’s Book of the Week One of People ’s Best Books of 2023 So Far One of Library Journal ’s 13 Genre-Blending Novels “One of the freshest love stories I’ve read in years.”—Colleen Oakley, author of The Invisible Husband of Frick Island “A heartfelt valentine to hope.” — People “A haunting love story—literally.”— Best magazine (UK) “Equal parts tender, sparkling, and authentic, Louisa Young’s prose is like watching a flower open, each moment beautiful, mesmerizing, and better than the last. Twelve Months and a Day will have readers captivated from beginning to end.” —Amy E. Reichert, author of Once Upon a December “Deeply emotional...An impressive and poignant romance.” — Publishers Weekly “Readers of this novel full of wisdom, joy, and sorrow should have their tissues handy as they read.”— Booklist (starred review) “Riveting…In this poignant tale of redemption and hope, we find unforgettable characters on both sides—the living and the dead—who are fated to find new strength, joy and purpose.” — BookTrib “A tale of two love stories with a supernatural twist…[Caused] a bitter-sweet pang in my heart as it ended.” —Monique Roffey, author of Archipelago and The White Woman on the Green Bicycle "The words 'emotional roller coaster' seem coined for Louisa Young’s beautiful, bittersweet novel, as heart-stoppingly romantic as it’s heartbreakingly sad...A lovely, moving, ultimately hopeful read."—The Express (UK) "A wonderful and inventive novel, sorrowful and hopeful in equal measure. It was a true pleasure to read." —Miranda Cowley Heller, author of The Paper Palace Louisa Young was born in London and studied history at Cambridge. She co-wrote the Lionboy series with her daughter and is the author of nine further books including, the bestselling My Dear I Wanted to Tell You , which was short-listed for the Costa Novel Award and was a Richard and Judy Book Club choice, and Baby Love , long-listed for the Orange Prize. Her work is published in thirty-six languages. She lives in London. 1 Bloody Boats February London Róisín Kennedy – thirty-three, observant, clever, a slight rockabilly look to her (blue-tipped hair, at the moment, and a little fringe) was feeling good in the pale sunshine of the gastropub garden. She and her fiancé Nico Triandafilides – thirty-six, nicely shaved, clean white shirt, quite the lad even on a Saturday lunchtime – hadn’t seen much of each other that week. He’d been working nights and she’d had a deadline in the editing suite. They hadn’t been getting on that well: for three months they’d been on a promise to discuss whether or not they wanted to have a child, though it was something neither of them actually wanted to talk about. They each thought that the other felt differently about it to them and was secretly upset. They were both wrong, and therefore they were both, secretly, upset. So this long-weekend morning of unexpectedly hot sex and breakfast out was bloody lovely. It was the first sunny morning of springtime: too early for the crocuses, but the unmistakable secret sign had gone out. The light was a breath lighter; even London’s sooty black walls and spit-raddled grey curbstones had an air of imminence. When the breeze lifted your hair, the sun was almost warm on your skin. The swans in the park had started with the neck-coiling; there was mimosa on the flower stalls. She was having avocados and stuff; he was going the full English, with triple espressos and extra black pudding. "Funniest thing this week?" she cued him, their old habit, a guaranteed mood-enhancer—mood-changer if need be—and that started up the run of stupid jokes. One of her many sisters, Nell, had pointed out that the term Leider-hosen—like Lederhosen, the well-known and arguably regrettable dungaree-style A