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Frances is in a new house in a new neighbourhood and going to a new school, but no amount of new can make her forget the sad old secret dragging at her heart. Not the pictures of bacteria that she draws with painstaking precision, not even Picasso, the puppy with the long soft ears and the cute black circle like a target on his bottom. Then Frances meets Kit, the tall, quiet boy with the two-coloured eyes. Kit is a real artist. His coloured pencils fill page after page of exercise books. He sees wonder in the rocks and ferns and sky. Though Kit has worries of his own.

Frances is in a new house in a new neighbourhood and going to a new school, but no amount of new can make her forget the sad old secret dragging at her heart. Not the pictures of bacteria that she draws with painstaking precision, not even Picasso, the puppy with the long soft ears and the cute black circle like a target on his bottom. Then Frances meets Kit, the quiet tall boy with the two-coloured eyes. Kit is a real artist. His coloured pencils fill page after page of exercise books. He sees wonder in the rocks and ferns and sky. Though Kit has worries of his own.

Frances is in a new house in a new neighbourhood and going to a new school, but no amount of new can make her forget the old, sad secret dragging at her heart. Not the pictures of bacteria that she draws with painstaking precision, not even Picasso, the puppy with the long soft ears and the cute black circle like a target on his bottom. Then Frances meets Kit, the tall, quiet boy with the two-coloured eyes. Kit is a real artist. His coloured pencils fill page after page of exercise books. He sees wonder in the rocks and ferns and sky. Though Kit has worries of his own.