20:07.

‘He’s beautiful.’

‘He’s gone.’

‘He’s boyfriend material.’

‘He’s gone.’

Macy smiles, all mischievous eyes and teasing. She hasn’t let up since the movie finished, when Sutter followed Aimee like he should have all along. ‘But I heard him invite you to stay.’ She bats her eyelids sweetly. ‘Will you?’

Kira takes a swallow of beer. ‘Maybe.’ Her treacherous lips twitch up. Dammit. ‘I’ve not not been thinking about it. It’s just—’

‘Just nothing!’ The smile becomes a beam of light, and Macy flings out her arms. ‘Just nothing, Kira. Look at you!’ She nudges Kira with her slippered foot. ‘I’ve seen you smile about a guy maybe once. You don’t even smile at Peter Kavinsky, and that’s a travesty.’

‘Peter Kavinsky’s sixteen.’

‘Not the point, Kira. Message him now and tell him.’ Macy leans over precariously, batting at Kira’s pockets. ‘Go, go, go! Tell him you’ll come.’

The doorbell rings. With a melodramatic sigh, Macy tosses her ringlets and gets to her feet. ‘I expect to see the message when I get back.’ She wags a stern finger. The beer bottle sloshes. ‘I’m serious. Serious as death.’ She shoots Kira a pointed look. ‘The snakebite kind.’

‘Not all snakes are deadly.’ Kira leans back to switch on the lamp, shaped like a pixie’s hat. The red, muted glow is soft in the night, and stretching out her legs on the sofa, she reaches for the plate of Oliebollen. Empty. Dammit. ‘Macy,’ she calls, in her best wheedle, ‘can you bring that ginger cake? We’re out of sugary death.’

‘I already promised you the snakebite kind.’ The door opens with a jangle of bells. ‘Send that message, woman.’

Kira tips her head back against the armrest. She won’t be sending messages; she’s not that hasty. Even if she was, she’s not confident enough. She couldn’t take Callum’s hand, so how can she take his offer?

God, this morning could be years ago. Taking another swallow of Corona, Kira slips into memory. It seems unreal that they were huddled up here, with the new year’s light pouring cold through the windows. His solid arm around her. Their deepening almost-moment. The pitiable melancholy that kept her in bed until three.

Well, that, laziness, and the hangover. Kira huffs into her bottle. She couldn’t realistically expect him to stay, to drop his whole life for however long, no more than she can drop hers and quick-march to Spain.

But if only he’d come back along the street. Hammered on the door, declared he couldn’t leave her, and then…

Then what? That’s the point where she starts to feel stupid, and severs the fantasy. They had a batty, dark adventure, for a handful of days, a year ago; pining for a big romance is a trope from teen dramas. Aimee and Sutter proved that ten minutes ago. It’s not real.

Or maybe she’s being cynical. Watching the pixie hat warm up, she shuffles toward hope. Callum could be here. Curled up on the couch, in a room that smells of Christmas candles, sleepy in the lamplight and eating takeaway. It’s not so different from the cabin in the—

‘Kira!’ Slamming the door, Macy bounces down the hall. One arm lags behind her, towing someone along. She beams. ‘Look who’s come to play.’

Shock belts through Kira’s chest. ‘Romy!’ she exclaims. Clutching at the sofa, she works herself upright. ‘What are you…agh.’ Shoving the Corona between two cushions, she gets clumsily to her feet. Her eyes flicker as she looks at her sister, as if she’s been staring at something too long. Shock. She hasn’t seen Romy since August. ‘What are you doing here?’ she manages. ‘Did you message? Did I miss it?’

She moves her hand to her pocket, but there’s no point checking now. Macy slips away in a waft of peach. Staring at her waiflike sister, Kira reclaims her status as household goldfish. They’ve never hugged; it’s not what they do. With Romy in front of her, though, Kira aches. No matter how much they fought to the bone, she’s missed her sister like hell.

‘No.’ Romy gives her a pale-lipped smile. Kira hadn’t noticed she was tense, but relaxes. It was inching toward being awkward. ‘Sorry. I should have, but it was last-minute, and you know I’m not good with messaging.’

Kira folds her arms, and smiles. ‘I do.’ It’s like dragging blood from Hadrian’s Wall. ‘What triggered it, though? I mean, I’m glad to see you, but…’

Now it’s awkward. Kira tightens her arms.

Thankfully, Romy catches the baton before it hits the floor. ‘I was watching the fireworks in London,’ she says. Flicking her fingers, she works her mouth. ‘And, you know. Remembering. I wasn’t far from the park where it happened, though I didn’t know that when I planned it.’

Romy frowns. It pinches her bony face. Kira nods. ‘So you thought…’

‘I thought, well, it’s been a year.’ Romy shrugs. ‘We’ve been talking more, and getting on more, and I thought we should be together.’ She shrugs again and draws herself up. It seems to inflate confidence into her chest with a pump. ‘So I came.’

Kira smiles. It stretches wide. She almost wants to hug her sister. This is unheard-of. This is unreal.

‘Um, please. Come in properly.’ She waves at Romy’s coat and boots, leading them into the kitchen. ‘Beer?’ She crouches to open the fridge. ‘All we’ve got now is Sagres.’

Romy’s boots click on the kitchen tiles. ‘Sagres is fine.’

Kira fights her way through the yogurts and cheese. They really should go shopping. ‘I think you’re right, by the way,’ she says. ‘One year on, we should be together. I was dwelling on Wh—’

She catches herself, her face a mask of horror, clenching the cheap fridge door. ‘What happened to our parents,’ she finishes. Winded, her heart throbs bloody, her cheeks an oven of heat. Hopefully, Romy didn’t notice. They only talk about the present or the future, and apparently, that makes it too easy to forget what rots underneath.

‘Or what didn’t happen,’ Kira adds, keeping her head in the fridge’s glow. Her flush is cooling. She was distracted. That’s all. The fridge is bonkers. ‘Everything, really. Trying to remember anything beyond setting off after you.’ She straightens up, in possession of two beers and a calmer countenance. ‘Here.’ Twisting off a cap, she hands the bottle to her sister. ‘I’m not sure what happened to mine, but I have an unfortunate suspicion it’s all over the couch.’ She grimaces. ‘Let’s stay in here. I do not want to know.’

Romy shrugs, and with a clink of bottles, they sit. ‘You’ve got a nice house.’ She nods at the small, square kitchen. ‘From what I’ve seen, anyway. It’s a lot better than Harvey’s. You know, he goes to Petroc?’ She takes a swig of beer. ‘His room doesn’t even have a window.’

Kira chokes, and splutters. ‘What?’

‘No’—Romy holds up a finger—‘I lie. It has a really nice window. It just opens onto the dining room, like you’re ruled by a panopticon.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘No privacy, no air, and the sense that you’re always being watched. Because, you know, you are, and curtains and a rail are too much to ask for.’ She raises her bottle high. ‘Anyway, cheers. My point is that your house is nice. Very you.’

She nods at the Kay Nielsen print on the wall, and the lack of cooking equipment. The bobblehead turtle on the windowsill, the glinting, empty wine bottles lining the tops of the cupboards. Scarlet, violet, midnight blue. Any artistic glass, Kira kept. ‘Thanks.’ She leans back in her chair, watching Romy take it in. It’s still a wonder that her sister’s here; that she showed up, after what’s never been between them. That, on the outside, she’s so unchanged.

Her blonde hair, stretching its spindly fingers toward her belly button. Limbs that her year five teacher dubbed ‘apelike,’ her face so pointed it looks ready to cut. Light eyes ringed with dark, from both makeup and fatigue. She could be an ice queen, ruler of a forest, and bestower of glass to the minds of underfed kids. Or is that a mixed reference? Kira gestures for Romy to drape her coat on the back of an empty chair. Black coat, black jeans, black vest, black boots. She may be more upbeat, but she’s still the sister from their life together, destroyed in a matter of days.

Kira blinks. That was a twist; now is really not the time. Swallowing the rest of her tiny beer, she pushes herself to her feet. Distractions. Romy’s surprise is great, giving hope for some kind of sisterly future, but at the same time, she’s the past. She’s already accentuating the ache—the dampened nostalgia, the sad float back—that was meant to end last night.

‘More beer?’ Kira yanks the fridge open. Catching her mistake just in time, she shoots out a hand to halt it mid-topple. Romy laughs.

‘Please…?’ she says, as Kira bends down. ‘Does it do that every time?’

‘Try to plummet to its death?’ Beers in hand, Kira straightens up and kicks the fridge shut. There; punished. ‘Yeah. And the washing machine’—she nods at the hulk beneath the dark window—‘vibrates so much that we have to clear the counters before we use it. It broke a pile of plates by vibrating them onto the floor. Oh, and if you need the toilet’—she flicks a hand at the stairs—‘stamp your foot by the sink first. Don’t ask me why.’ She drops into the blue metal chair. ‘Assuming you’re staying, that is.’

She propels a beer across the table. It wobbles into Romy’s waiting hand. ‘I am if you’ll have me.’ She spreads her arms wide. ‘But term starts in ten days. Ish. I think. I mean, I didn’t bring anything.’ She throws a glance at her battered handbag, drunk beside the table. ‘I didn’t think it through, but if I can borrow some stuff, and you don’t mind me being here, I’d like to stay. Holland looks fun.’

Kira leans across the table. Romy’s fingers are cold, and masking a flinch, she runs a thumb over the knuckles. ‘Stay for the next ten days. Ish.’ Her vision flickers as she meets Romy’s eyes, but she blinks the bright little jerks away. If it’s not shock, it’s dehydration. Last night was excessive. ‘Seriously. It’s about time we bonded.’

She sits up. Tipping the chair back, Romy snorts. ‘I suppose it is.’ The chair clatters down. ‘And I’ve been thinking.’ She clunks her elbows on the table, wagging her bottle in Kira’s direction. ‘We should go away for my birthday. A girls’ holiday, somewhere hot. Got to start the bonding off right.’

She winks. It’s jarring. Kira lifts her eyebrows. ‘A girls’ holiday, somewhere hot? Like where?’

‘Spain?’

‘Spain?’

‘Why not?’ Romy grins. ‘I’m sure Gran and Gramps will be over the moon. Their distant, wayward charges getting on? Alert the bannermen, stop the press.’ Her eyes glitter with mischief. ‘Also, my childhood’s going out with a bang.’

Kira laughs, high and bursting. This is insane; this whole day has been insane. ‘Wow. Um.’ She combs a hand through her hair, wishing for a beat that it was blonde. Oh, nostalgia. ‘You know this is strange for me, right? To not see you for however long, then you turn up wanting a girls’ holiday? Our whole existence used to be avoiding each other, because I thought you were too emo and you sniffed at my life-loving artist vibes.’ She lifts her bottle. ‘But yes. Yes! Where in Spain?’

A grin splits her face, and they clink their bottles. Callum, Romy. Romy, Callum. All things considered, the new year is starting off pretty damn well. Why not go on holiday? God knows they deserve it.

Even if Romy doesn’t know how much.

‘Somewhere sunny but barren.’ Romy pats her stomach. ‘With stellar food. I don’t suppose…’

‘Help yourself.’ Kira does a mental sweep of the cupboards. ‘There’s a good chance you’ll find crumbs, and a slim to fair chance of scrounging up more.’

Romy stands. ‘There’s always sofa beer.’

Kira smiles, following her sister’s gaze as she glances out of the window. Fat white flakes fall, spiralling tight-knit circles above the lamplit streets. Night has left the town deserted; it’s an eerie antithesis to the previous evening, slumbering behind tiny doors and smoking, fire-warmed chimneys. A world within a world, muffled by the weight of clouds and snow.

No wonder Romy’s been transfixed. The moments pass, and still she stares, motionless and watchful. She’s lived her whole life in a bricked-up wilderness. A cobbled winter street, as a place to call home, must seem like Narnia.

Kira’s phone vibrates. She digs it out quickly. With Romy quiet, turning to the cupboards, her thoughts are treading on dangerous ground.

Sorry it’s so late. Callum. Kira’s heart hops. She tells it off. The snow screwed the flights up, then they go and lose Andre’s case. He’s still having kittens because of this morning, so if this is the last you hear from me, he’s set them loose on my balls.

Delightful. Kira shakes her head, wistful and wry. Death by kittens… she replies. After the crazy things we’ve survived, it’s pretty anticlimactic. Also— She pauses. Considers. Messaging you is weird.

‘New boyfriend?’ She looks up to Romy watching her playfully, a banana in one hand and Oreos in the other. ‘I know that smile.’ Dipping her chin slyly, she sits. ‘That’s the “Peter asked me out” smile, or the “Andrew’s taking me to London for my birthday” smile, or even’—she leans low across the table, as Kira’s cheeks disobey her and flush—‘the “I kissed José and we’re back together” smile from many, many—it is!’

She throws up her arms, dropping the banana. Kira bites back a guilty grin. ‘It’s not.’

‘It is.’

Kira shakes her head with all the fervour of denial in front of a judge. ‘It’s not.’

‘It is, though.’ Romy rips into the Oreos. ‘You think I wasn’t listening, if you talked about it when I was there? I was the master of superficial disinterest. That smile is the guy smile. Come on.’ Knotting her fingers together, she rests her chin on their net and blinks entreatingly. ‘Who is he? We’re being real sisters now, right? Bonding? Well, that starts with talking about guys. And eating.’

Kira snorts. ‘Okay, then.’ She waves through the door at Vero as her housemate slips inside, blowing kisses to someone on the doorstep and smoothing down last night’s dress. ‘If that’s what we’re doing, you start us off. We’ll trade. What happened to Ryan?’

Her phone lights up, and she glances down. WhatsApp audio: Callum Reeve. After a brief hesitation, she slides to reject. They can talk later; as much as Romy’s a persistent pest, this snowballing strangeness is something to savour.

Looking back up, another guilty grin fights to break through. Romy’s eyebrows are raised, the eyes themselves flicking between Kira and the phone. It lights up again. WhatsApp audio: Callum Reeve. Kira dismisses it quickly.

‘That’s him?’ Romy nods at the screen. It lights up a third time, and her eyebrows almost hit her hair. ‘He’s nearly as dogged as Peter. Woof.’ She scoffs a strawberry cookie. ‘Confess.’

Locking her lips, Kira tosses the key. ‘Not until you tell me what happened with Ryan. You’ve been holding out for a month. Think of it as payment, for the upcoming board and lodge.’ She turns her phone face down, ignoring the message flashing up on the screen. Their newfound contact can be revelled in later. She sips her beer. ‘I’m waiting.’

Romy purses her lips. ‘Fine.’ She crooks her arm and points a finger. ‘But I’m warning you, he makes Peter look like an imprinted gosling. You know how Ryan was perfect?’

Kira bites into an Oreo. Ew. They do not go with beer. ‘Yes?’

Romy arches her eyebrows meaningfully. ‘Well, he flipped the honeymoon-phase switch, and became a bat out of hell. He started talking about marriage, and kids, and how it was time I started going to fewer parties and, you know, learned to cook, so that when we finish sixth form in July, and get an apartment, I can be ready with tea when he finishes work.’

‘What?’

‘Yep.’ She nods slowly. Kira stares, lips apart. ‘What, indeed. We’re seventeen, and he’s trying to make me a housewife. No buildup. No hints I was blind to. Just suddenly, “Hey, I’ve been thinking, shouldn’t you see your friends less and take out your nose ring? If you’re going to be a wife and mother soon?” And that was that.’ She mimes an explosion. ‘Boom! Perfection gone. I kicked that son of a bitch to the curb.’

‘He proposed?’ Kira plonks her bottle down. The flimsy table shakes. ‘What—he—god.’ She pulls a face at the slopping beer. ‘I see why you kept it to yourself. I didn’t think guys like that existed.’

‘Well, they do.’ Romy lifts her bottle. ‘To losing Peter and Ryan. The worst little goslings to ever trap women.’

They clink their cheers, and shaking her head, Kira drains the rest of the beer. ‘Seriously, though. He proposed?’

Romy screws up her mouth. ‘Not in so many words, but yeah.’ For a second, she almost looks nostalgic. ‘It was strange, how he pulled such a total one-eighty. He really had been perfect: paying for our tickets to Download, carving me a little meerkat because I said I liked the adverts. I actually miss that side of him. But anyway’—she gestures to Kira—‘that’s all over, and now I have Harvey, who is less perfect, but lets me stay over every weekend. With Gran and Gramps so pernickety, it’s needed.’ She pushes up from the table. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’

She throws a look at the open door. Veronica is finally tripping upstairs, giggling into her phone. Kira smiles. She could be five years younger, home from her first date. Her first date, her first kiss, standing on the porch in the evening mist. In a perfect world, there’d be a summer breeze, a night right for sandals and a flowery dress. A diner meal in her Arizona hometown, pancakes and syrup and thick red booths. A date with a dark-haired, 1950s—

‘Kira?’

Kira blinks, and the image pixelates. Romy. The bathroom. A creative writing module does wonders for the mind, but nothing for reality. ‘Sorry. Yes.’ She blinks again. ‘Up the stairs, first door on the left.’

Cutting her a curious, bemused smile, Romy obeys. ‘Yes, mein führer.’

‘And don’t forget to stamp!’ Kira calls after her. ‘To the right of the sink, or it makes it worse.’

‘Yes, mein führer.’ Romy laughs. The words echo back down the stairs. ‘First star on the something, straight on till morning.’

‘Precisely.’ Kira’s phone buzzes. Ducking her head in exasperation, she tips her groaning chair legs back and scrolls through the notifications. They’ve reproduced like rabbits.

Answer your phone.

It’s important, Kira.

Disquiet unfurls like a flower in the dawn.

Goddammit, Kira, are you even alive? I NEED TO TALK TO YOU.

Okay. I had a missed call from Mum when I landed, and only just called her back. There’s trouble with W, and it involves you. Now bloody hell, answer me.

He’s still typing. Before she can reply, another message comes through, and for a second, Kira can’t breathe. It stills her blood, and chills her bones. No. No, no, no.

I give up, it says. I really didn’t want to type this, but you need to know. Let the FBI think I’m a fruitcake or illuminati. Whatever. A huldra’s escaped, and it wants you and Romy. No one knows why, but Mum’s been told it’s looking for you. If I don’t speak to you soon, be careful. She says Huldra stay dangerous, right until they’re fully human. Warn Romy.

Pause. And fucking call me.

Kira lets the chair drop. It hits the floor with a juddering bang. The screen blurs as she stares through it. Whiteland. Huldra.

It’s starting again.