Kira sits in silence after Carol has gone. Going through it all out loud has made her feel abhorrent.

Again.

Cradling the black cat, she smothers her fear in its fur and tries not to listen. The creaks of the chalet could be someone on the roof. They could be sneaking through a window, or already upstairs. The thumps of logs shifting on the fire—Carol lit it before she left, with instructions to add wood and prod—could be the first notes of a bassline. Alone on the mountain that devoured her family, who knows what anything is.

This is ridiculous. Kira gnaws at her cheek, worrying the ulcer. She finished her tea a while ago, and ate as much as her curdled belly could. She has to do something.

Preferably something apart from dwelling. Brooding. Listening. Imagining phantom intruders, and not so phantom Huldra.

Hugging the sleeping cat, Kira wearily, warily leaves the couch.

Whoa. Black spots sprinkle. Her whole body sways. She clearly needs more than a sit-down and cheese.

But not now. Right now, she needs distractions. Blinking the head-rushing spots away, she slowly starts to wander.

The door by the crackling fire is fairly disappointing. Leading to a tiny, spiderwebbed toilet, it’s the homely home’s antithesis, and Kira moves on. Past a squashy armchair, huddled by the front door; past a rustic pair of raquettes, crooked on the wall. Down the hall to the kitchen, but oh, there’s nothing here. No distractions.

None she likes. The symbol stares from the wall, and she hugs the cat tighter. The tree has invisible eyes, haughty and blinking when she looks away, watching wherever she goes. It’s far more disturbing there than on her arm.

Avoiding its gaze, Kira lifts the window blind over the sink. The cat shifts in sleep, but doesn’t protest. In the moonlight, a strip of snow shines blue, crammed between the house and a hedge. She drops the blind again. Nothing. The chalet is tiny, but still. There must be something somewhere. A mystical mark, in need of analysis. A sword in a corner, or a crystal in a cranny. A secret room for her to find with a thrill, then quickly close the door on because anything else would be prying.

Kira huffs to herself. She’d make a terrible adventurer. The Famous Five wouldn’t sniff at her; the kids from Stranger Things and It would laugh her into shame.

She can hear them now, cycling and crowing. Leaving the kitchen, she peers up the stairs. A dark landing, a beaded curtain, and four half-closed—

The front door opens.

Kira’s head swoons hot. Her chest floods cold. She’d been trying not to listen, but to not hear at all? She should have heard the squeaking snow. She should have been prepared. Instead, she’s the victim of a basilisk, frozen at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Who are you?’

A breaking voice. An accusation. Kira’s mouth is dry. ‘Um.’

The boy narrows his eyes. ‘And why are you holding Nibbles like you’re Gollum?’

Sense rockets back. Kira’s body sags. God, she needs to sleep.

‘Hi, Jay.’ She steps fully into view, trying to look neither guilty nor afraid. The boy is a bundled-up Michelin Man, tufty brown hair escaping from his hat. He’s a few inches shorter than her, but in a ski coat, ski trousers, and hefty moon boots, he looks like a yeti come in from the cold. With a tentative half-smile, she moves toward him. ‘I’m Kira. Please, don’t shriek “stranger danger.” Your mum said you were walking the dog.’

Radio silence. The boy’s suspicion radiates. The dog in question snuffles in, flopping lackadaisically onto the rug with a throaty exhale and a thump. Kira frowns a little. Gone is the large, hairy beast she met before; this is a heartily jowled Labrador, chocolate-coloured and dribbling. Why does everything dribble?

Her chest pangs for the beast of old. She only met it once, but apparently, today is her day of feeling bad for the world.

‘Your mum’s gone for the twins,’ she tries. The nearby train rumbles past, lumbering up the mountain. Jay disrobes and shuts the door. Silence. Too much silence. ‘She’s letting me stay.’

‘Yeah.’ Kicking off his boots, he makes for the stairs. ‘I know. When she gets back, tell her I’m done. I’m never walking Diego again.’

The stairs thunder. ‘That insolent, shelf-mounted mammoth of a—’

The rest of the griping drowns in a slam. Kira flashes her eyebrows. Okay, then; gone is the old dog, and gone is the old boy, repeating village gossip with a cheeky, nosy grin. In a year, he’s become a preteen.

A grouchy one at that. Nibbles starts to wriggle. Kira carefully sets her down. Nibbles and Diego; what a pair. Kira tilts her head to regard the dog. He’s the least Diego-like pet she’s ever seen.

‘Hi, Diego.’ She sighs. Bring Me the Horizon starts up above her, their dulcet tones raging mid-song. For a second, she feels like an out-of-touch mum.

For several more, she’s back in Holland, climbing the stairs in the dark.

No.

‘How was your day?’ Kira bumps her hip against the couch. Diego is already sixty-percent doze, but she’s not letting that back in. No way. ‘Really?’ Stubbornly, she shakes her head. ‘Same. I don’t suppose you fancy sharing how you’ve pissed off Jay?’ She glances at the thumping ceiling. Are we dead when we have died? She looks hastily back to the dog. ‘You’ve lumped me with one very disgruntled—’

This time, she hears it. The crunch of snow, the echo of voices, bickering exclamations. Kira stiffens to listen. Are the twins back already? Carol didn’t say how long she’d be, other than not long, but this doesn’t sound like young children. Kira tries and fails to twist her sleeves. The cardigan is too short, too summery. She’s naked, lost, exposed.

Tucking her hair behind her ears, she roots herself in place. She’s the adult here. She’ll face the door. No cowering, quailing, or running away, hiding behind a cat. She assumed the twins were young, but they might not be. Who else would argue so close to the house?

Someone trying to fool her. Real stranger danger. The huldra, posing as somebody else. Kira wavers, gripping the sofa. On second thought, not hearing Jay was good. Great, even. The blood flutes in her temples. Her chest stretches, tightens, taut, a balloon ready to pop.

At least with Jay, her panic was brief. Now, the crunching snow crescendos, the squabbling louder but mostly obscured. Please. She could disintegrate. Let today’s surprises end.

‘You have to be fucking kidding me.’

Under the snow-laden arch, Romy stops. Looks up at the garden, down at herself. Turning to him, she gapes. ‘It’s vertical.’

Callum shoulders past. She badgered him about tickets at Blonay, even though the last train was leaving, now. She badgered him throughout the journey, sighing at the driver’s door as if asking to get fined. On top of that, she refused to believe that the service stopped at seven, and combined with an intermittent humming, not to mention the Lost Rucksack Lament, he’s thoroughly had enough.

Sure, she’s suffered a horrific shock. Sure, she’s fled the country, and sure, she’s worried to death about Kira. He’s cut her slack, but his patience has limits. He’s barely slept in days.

‘I preferred you half-dead,’ he mutters, slapping his hands to his knees. Up through the snow, the mighty push. The house lights are on. Jay’s music roars. All the metal wrath in the world is better than Romy McFadden.

‘Oi.’ Ploughing after him, Romy puffs and pants her pique. Callum commits to snubbing it. ‘What do you mean, you preferred me half-dead?’ She falls behind, wheezing. ‘When was I ever half-dead?’

Silence. Callum doesn’t wait.

‘Is this another wild-man mystery?’

Silence.

‘Of course it is.’ Quickly, Romy ploughs up to his side. Five blissful seconds, then, ‘How do I know you’re not fake?’

Snap. ‘You asked me that already.’ Callum swivels to face her. Unsteady in the trampled snow, he teeters, glaring. ‘And you’ll never find out if you don’t shut up. I’ll lock you in the attic and pretend you’re a poltergeist.’ He jerks back, digs his hands in his pockets, and climbs. Everything about him is stretched too thin. ‘The amount you moan, no one will know.’

Five more seconds. Maybe six. Then, reflectively, ‘Shrek. Yeah!’

She speeds up, the better to gasp at the side of his head. Powder from her boots coats his jeans. Her clouding breath is lemony. He grits his teeth. ‘It’s like you’re Shrek’—she grins—‘and I’m Donkey.’

‘Shut up.’

But her humour is infectious, and a part of him relents. At least she knows she’s annoying. ‘So basically, I’m Scottish.’ He squints in the glare of the Christmas lights. ‘And you’re a pain in the ass.’

Romy claps, slow and deliberate. ‘Well done.’ Reaching the top of the upward slog, they trudge toward the chalet. ‘You’re Charlie Chaplin now, as well.’

Despite himself, Callum snorts. ‘Hilarious?’

‘No.’ Breathing hard, a fist to her chest, Romy rolls her eyes. ‘A literal pain in the ass.’

‘Not literal.’

‘Shut up.’

Close to smirking, Callum opens the door.

He expected to see his mum and the twins. He didn’t expect to see Kira.