Traversing the icy railway tracks, she had to concede that the way up would have been nothing short of lethal. Snow has buried the path to hedge height, and walking on the line, as Callum pointed out, would have meant being squashed by Guillaume.

He thinks he’s on the home stretch when he gets to this point. Callum settled into a determined impression, hunched in a fictional cabin. Wild and free, a horse on the plains, that guy on the bus in Speed—

Then the chaos caught them. For a moment, they stared, stopped literally in their tracks, and now, Kira’s insides are gnarling.

‘I mean…’ She lifts an aimless hand. She can’t tear her eyes from the chalet, the way she’d watch an oddly acting dog. ‘I know you said Karl was upset, but…’

Callum rocks back on his heels. ‘Yeah.’ His face would suggest the dog is rabid. ‘I thought he was overreacting.’

‘Clearly not.’ Kira glances at him sidelong. ‘You said you heard arguing? This is not arguing. This’—she waves a hand at the chalet—‘is full-on war.’

Leaving the trenches, all guns blazing. Nothing quiet on the Western Front. Arguing? The Battle of Carol and Romy doesn’t know the meaning of the word.

‘Goody.’ Callum narrows his eyes. The voices echo and clash. ‘I think we should have told her the truth last night.’

Kira flashes her eyebrows. ‘Too late for that.’ Extending her arms for balance, she continues down the line. ‘Your village grapevine will quiver with joy. Again.’

‘Don’t worry.’ Callum jogs, unsteadily, to catch her up. ‘We’ve dealt with scratchy-bitey. We can handle a bit of rage.’

At the crossing with the road, Kira stops. ‘Scratchy-bitey.’ Deliberate and slow, she turns. Her voice is as flat as her gaze. ‘Really, Callum? You studied philosophy. Where are your lofty words? Your’—she slips, and Callum’s arm shoots out—‘esoteric ideas?’

‘Define them, my dear, and I’ll let you know. Up.’ He hoists her off the line, through a patch of knee-deep snow. ‘And down.’ He lowers her onto a stepping stone. She barely had time to inhale. ‘I’ll give you some good words.’ He motions for her to go ahead of him, through the arcing hedge. ‘Joviality.’

In the sun-streaked garden, Kira glances back. She should be annoyed at being manhandled, but he’s just so Callum. So here, in his frosted, breeze-blown village, somehow keeping her sane. ‘That’s not that good a word.’

Callum shrugs. ‘It serves a purpose.’ He shoves his hands in his pockets. ‘It’s a bit of a shit segue, but I’ve been wanting to say it for a while. Don’t think my joviality means I’m taking this as a joke.’

Surprised, Kira cuts back her humour. If their habits were reversed, he’d be fiddling with his sleeves. ‘I don’t. I don’t think that.’

Callum looks away, his eyes tight. ‘Good.’ He sighs, and looks back. ‘Good. Because from what you and Romy have said, it’s really fucking scary.’ He shrugs. ‘All of it. You know. But if we don’t joke, or forget for a while, our minds will end up scarier.’

Inside Kira’s chest, something twinges. Drawbridge down, open gates; offering her a serious smile, it’s the frankest he’s looked.

‘It’s why I took you up the mountain.’ Closing the distance between them, Callum brushes her shoulder. ‘I know I’m on the verge of sounding very unmanly, but I felt like you needed a reminder. The world can be revolting’—he kisses her forehead—‘but it can also be pretty as hell.’

Up above them, the battle pitches. ‘I see what you mean.’ Putting her arms around him, Kira leans into his chest. ‘Thank you. For the sunrise and the un-jovial philosophy.’ She squeezes him. ‘They’re both kind of pretty as hell.’

Pulling back, she musters a rueful smile. His face creases into a frown. ‘It’s a compliment.’ She taps his arm. ‘And I’m the king of brooding, so I get it. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but I’m trying to follow your lead.’ She lifts one shoulder, dropping it slowly. ‘I never thought you weren’t taking anything seriously. If we were constantly serious, then yes. We’d be worse inside than out.’

Inside the chalet, someone bursts into tears. Kira flinches. ‘Oh, dear god.’

She makes to carry on, but Callum grabs her wrist. ‘Hey.’

‘What?’ Kira glances back, bracing for the bedlam.

Callum lets her go. ‘We’ve come across worse.’

Arching one eyebrow, Kira lowers the other.

‘We have!’ Callum spreads his hands. ‘I refuse to indulge your idiocy, but I will say this: “Whiteland.”’ He brackets the word with his fingers. ‘On the scale of what we’ve been up against, two angry women don’t chart.’

The crying steps up to a wail. Kira nods at the chalet with a wince of her lips. ‘And that?’

Callum thins his lips. A door slams. ‘That sounds a lot like Julia.’

They head inside in silence. The voices rage from the kitchen, and the kitchen door is shut. ‘You find Julia.’ Kira sighs, hanging her coat on an overflowing peg. Muffled now and gulping, the crying has moved upstairs. ‘I’ll go see what’s happened. Once more unto the—’

‘No.’ Callum stops her before she can enter the fray. ‘You find Julia’—he nods at the kitchen—‘and I’ll tackle the breach.’

His strange dog expression is a copy of hers. ‘Why?’ Kira frowns, watching him eye the door. ‘Surely that’s the wrong way round.’

‘Not…if you think about it.’ Scratching his head, Callum lets her go. ‘Romy’s woken up knowing that you’ve lied to her for a year. What’s more, you’ve lied about something huge, and listening to her, she’s furious.’ He angles his head at the kitchen. ‘You going in there might make it worse, but if you go hug Julia—in case you haven’t noticed, she loves hugs—by the time you see Romy, she’ll have hopefully calmed down. I can talk to her.’ He glances at Diego, snorting in sleep on the makeshift lounge-floor bed. ‘She has no grounds on which to hate me.’

Kira hesitates. Run upstairs, go, go, go. ‘Are you sure?’ she hedges. ‘You’re really willing to bare your throat?’

Callum nods. ‘Absolutely.’ With a smile, his look turns sheepish. ‘And as much as I love my surrogate sister, I’m lost when it comes to comforting kids.’

That’s enough. Heading up the stairs, Kira tries for sombre over relief. It’s cowardice to run from facing her sister, but Romy’s fury is a landslide. A forest fire, a runaway train. No tail doesn’t mean no monster.

She’s known it in herself. It’s awful to admit to, and barely occasional, but its ugly maw is there.

Flash. Sports Day, year five, when a girl elbowed her out of the way so she could overtake. Her mother looked shell-shocked, pale and wordless, when Kira started to scream. Fists balled at the finish line. Her throat felt razed for days.

Flash. A time when Kira was younger, vowing in detail to butcher the seagull that flew off with her chips.

Flash. She was fourteen, she’d gone to a party, and the punishment for a sip of beer seemed way too harsh. (Even if it was three sips, or most of two pints.)

Flash. Slapping Callum with all her might, for no reason at all. Something may have been messing with her mind…but she’ll never know for sure.

Romy’s anger is far more rational than hers has ever been. It’s uneasy, a disquieting flutter, and as Kira pauses on the landing to listen, she shuffles it under the rug. Jay’s door is shut, patterned with stickers. The twins’ is the same, with KARL and JULIA in spaceship decals. The crying is coming from the bathroom.

Forcing her face into optimism, Kira opens the door. She’s not the best with kids, but she’ll try.

Julia, clad in a Star Wars nightdress, sits in the bath and cries.

‘Hey.’ Kira drops to her knees at once. Clutching her legs to her chest, the little girl is shaking. ‘Hey, Julia, hey. What’s wrong?’ Reaching for Julia’s buried face, she brushes the hair from her temples. It’s wet and hot, her skin pink. ‘Julia? What’s happened?’

Julia shakes her head. One-two-three, frenetic. ‘Okay.’ Resting her chin on her hand, Kira rests her hand on the bath. ‘That’s okay.’ She squeezes Julia’s shoulder, rubbing with her thumb. The girl smells sharp and acrid, and she fights the urge to grimace. ‘You don’t have to. Just as long as you’re all right.’

One-two-three-FOUR, frenetic, fervent, dizzy. Without lifting her head, Julia points at the door.

A thrill of fear fizzes through Kira. Knocking her chin on the bath, she whips her head around.

Nothing. The dim hall, windowless and cramped.

Windowless, cramped, and empty. ‘You want the door closed?’ Kira guesses, after a close, peering scrutiny. This near to Whiteland, she can’t be too paranoid. ‘Okay.’ She heaves herself up.

Julia looks up. ‘I don’t want anyone to see,’ she mumbles, as Kira shuts the door. Her voice is thick and woollen, an almost-Scottish lilt. Returning to the cold tiles, Kira’s heart pangs. Julia’s eyes have puffed like beestings, her hair sodden and stuck to her face. This is breakup crying, or witnessing-murders crying; it’s absolutely not chubby-children crying.

‘See what?’ Kira asks, peeling away more tear-damp hair. ‘You crying? Do you want me to go, too?’

Sniffing, Julia wipes her nose. ‘No.’ She shakes her head once.’ I don’t want anyone else to see.’

She lifts her hot palm, damp on Kira’s cheek. Kira’s eyes flicker dark, flicker out, and she sees.

It’s a film reel, vertigo, falling into the Pensieve. Julia woke to Callum clumping Kira down the stairs. She lay for a while, trying to sleep, but the sound of the rumbling train, and Karl’s tossing and turning—more like thumping and bumping—was too much. She slipped into her slippers and shuffled downstairs.

She was hoping for a hot chocolate, and maybe a packet of pancakes. She wasn’t expecting a woman on the table.

Sitting cross-legged, the woman was twisting the top off a big glass bottle. Julia knew her fast enough, the woman from the sofa, but for a skipping second, she was scared. Sleeping people look different, and being up alone makes her chew on her hair without strange people around. The gloomy chalet seems gloomier; the fireplace could be hiding boggarts. Tomtes, even though they’re friendly, might be snickering by the door. Sometimes the garden is scary, too, depending on how dark it is; the front could be home to goblins, dancing round the rowan. The back—

‘Morning,’ the woman said, and Julia jumped. ‘You’re around early.’

She glanced up. Her face was round, all carved in lines from trying to open the bottle. What was her name? Rosie? No. Something new. ‘Um.’ Julia nibbled her finger. Romy. That was it.

‘Aha!’ Victorious, Romy dropped the bottle top, pouring the liquid down her throat. Julia watched in a kind of awe. No stranger had ever come to the house and sat up on the table. No strangers came at all.

‘What’s that?’ she asked, pointing to the bottle. Coughing quietly, Romy pulled a series of ghastly faces. ‘It doesn’t look very nice.’

Red like a ruby, the bottle seemed to glow. ‘Astute little thing, aren’t you?’ Romy held it up, peering at its contents. ‘And it’s Pure Hell.’ She swallowed another mouthful. ‘Ah.’ A sharp exhale. ‘Yet at the same time, it’s beautiful. Come sit.’

She patted the table. Julia hesitated. She could drown her pancakes in treacle, make her hot chocolate, and go watch PJ Masks—but this woman was far more interesting. She had a twisted, angry face that didn’t exist when she was asleep, and she was sizing Julia up with cold blue eyes. She could be the Snow Queen, or Elsa; she was exciting. Kicking her feet up onto a chair, leaning back on one hand, tipping the Pure Hell into her mouth; exciting, exciting, exciting. Retrieving the treacle-less pancakes, Julia hopped up to join her.

‘Want some?’ she asked.

Romy raised an eyebrow. ‘Sure,’ she said, with a shrug. ‘Thanks. You know’—she wagged her new snack in the air—‘you’re the best person that could have walked in. Kira’s an unbelievable liar. Callum annoys me to the moon and back, even if his lies’—she crammed the pancake into her mouth—‘aren’t as shameful. That woman, who I now know isn’t your mum, because your—’

She stopped like a statue. Julia blinked. ‘My?’

‘Never mind.’ Unfreezing, Romy waved a hand, drinking again from Hell. ‘Whoever she is, that woman put me to sleep and gave me a creepy-ass dream. No, a wonderfully informative dream.’ She curled her lips. ‘Forgive my Freudian slip. But you—you’re an innocent little chicken.’ She patted Julia’s head. ‘You want pancakes and to sit on the table. After the nightmare I’ve just woken up from, the nightmare that oh, how delightful, is shifting around up there into memory, you’re the cliché breath of fresh air.’

Julia smiled around her pancake. Most of that didn’t make sense, but Romy seemed to like her. ‘What nightmare did—’

‘Imagine finding out you’ve been lied to for a year.’ Romy interrupted as if she hadn’t heard. Her mouth distorted in dour disbelief. ‘And the lie is so colossal—so appalling’—she threw her arms wide, the bottle sloshing—‘that you can’t believe it exists. Not only that, but it’s been hidden for so long. For a year. Can you imagine that?’ She bugged her eyes. ‘For me?’

Julia stuffed the rest of the crumbly pancake into her mouth. It really could do with treacle, or Ovomaltine spread. ‘Yes,’ she replied, in a spraying mumble. Romy said nothing. Julia warmed to her even more. ‘No one tells me and Karl what happened to our mum. They say she disappeared and never came back, but they’re all’—she moved her hands in the air, like the man kneading dough at the market—‘jumpy, and weird. They never look at us when they talk about it.’

Romy started to laugh.

‘What?’ Julia looked up at her, wounded. ‘Am I imagining it wrong?’

The laugh was as sharp as her eyes. ‘No.’ Romy shook her head. ‘The opposite. That’s exactly—exactly—the lie I was told. Now, thanks to the sandwoman, I know the truth. Exit light, enter night, all that bullshit. Smell?’

She held out the bottle. Julia hesitated. If it tasted bad, it couldn’t smell too good. ‘Okay,’ she said anyway. Today was a day to be daring. She’d already sat on the table.

‘That’s my girl.’ Romy held the bottle closer. Squinting, Julia sniffed.

‘Ew!’ She jerked her face away. It hurt her eyes like onions and smelt like loos. ‘That’s horrible.’ She wiped her nose, rubbed her eyes, and turned back with a swaggering grin. ‘Can I try?’

The Snow-Queen-Elsa’s eyes were quiet. Four, six, eight, then, ‘Sure.’ She handed it over. ‘I don’t care. Serves everyone right.’

Whatever that meant, Julia ignored it. Taking the bottle, she held her breath, copied Romy, and upended it down her throat.

Fire. Fire, fire, fire, fire, fire, fire, fire.

‘Ah!’ she cried. Coughing, she clapped her free hand to her mouth. ‘It’s hot! And it’s gross.’ She screwed up her face, coughed again, and clasped her gurgling, churning stomach. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

‘Nah.’ Bracingly, Romy patted her knee. ‘Just don’t tell your mother.’

She was taking back the bottle when Carol walked in.

Kira returns with no big shift. She could be opening her eyes mid-dream, and from scowling at the drink, acidic on her tongue, she’s back in the bathroom, kneeling on the tiles.

‘What the…?’ She narrows her eyes. Staring through the shiny bath, the Star Wars nightdress, and then, the world jolts back. ‘Oh, my god!’

She flails backwards, loses her balance, and topples onto the floor. ‘How did you…? I—oh, come on, this house!’

She scrabbles to her feet. Julia’s expression is desperate, wide, as wounded as she was with Romy. ‘Please don’t tell anyone,’ she pleads, shifting to cling to the porcelain edge. ‘Please. Only Karl knows. He likes me showing him things.’ She gulps back a sob. A sniff, and she wipes her nose on her knuckles. ‘Please don’t tell Carol.’

‘I’m not going to.’ Scraping a hand through her hair, Kira holds it on top of her head. Eyes closed: breathe. The rage she was recalling is gas around her ribs. ‘It’s…’ She leans down jerkily, squeezing Julia’s hand. ‘It’s not you. I’m not angry at you. When everything’s calmed down, though, I want a full report. I want to know how you do that. Okay?’ Pressing the chubby fingers again, she whirls from the room.

She doesn’t bother knocking. ‘You gave alcohol to a child?’ she yells, barging through the kitchen door. They might have been shouting; they might not. The gas is turning red. ‘What the hell, Romy? Are you a psychopath now? I thought you were over this.’ She flicks her fingers in disgust, at Romy, languid with her chin on her hands, poking the half-full bottle. ‘What happened to “Oh, I’m okay now, I haven’t binged in months, I’m not depressed anymore, I’m fine, I’m dandy, I’m great, Kira, great?”’

Romy bats lazy eyelids. She can’t have been shouting; she looks almost asleep. ‘Well, aren’t we high and mighty?’ she drawls. Her hair is a tangle, her makeup smudged. ‘Pull up a chair, sister. Tell me the tales of old, where our mother is a succubus and I killed Dad.’

The wind leaves Kira’s lungs. Her angry sails deflate, and she stares, full of blood, rushing and throbbing in her ears. She’d thought of Carol’s sleep as a helpful plot device, but seeing Romy, burdened and burning…

This is so screwed up.

‘Oh, by all means,’ Romy continues, when the struggle of anger and guilt leads to silence. ‘Take your time. Amass your excuses. You’ve got a year’s worth, after all.’

‘I told you, that’s not fair,’ Callum warns, tense in front of the oven. ‘She was trying not to hurt you. Leave her alone.’

‘I can spar with her myself,’ Kira snaps. ‘Sorry.’ She holds up her hands. ‘I’m sorry. This is all just insane.’ She casts him an abashed apology. Hands back in his pockets, he nods. ‘But he’s right, Romy.’ She looks back to her sister. Lazing on her hand, Romy blows out her lips: I’m drunk, and I don’t care. ‘You didn’t remember anything, and I didn’t want to hurt you. Now you have to know, because it’s the only way to explain why we’re here, but back then you didn’t. What would it have done to you?’

The stairs behind them thunder. Kira glances to the side. ‘It would have been too much,’ she continues. ‘It was too much for me.’

Through the kitchen window, Carol shifts. Staring at the sky, her outline could cut, resting the knob of her skull on the glass. She’s escaped. Lucky her.

‘Which is why you left.’ Romy’s voice is dead. ‘How brave of you.’

‘I don’t pretend it was brave.’ Fixing her eyes on Romy, Kira swallows. ‘I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t take it back.’ The words surge, and she pushes them out. It’s true, but is it selfish? ‘I wish you’d never had to know at all.’

The stair thunder ends. ‘You’ve got bigger problems,’ Jay blurts, colliding with the doorway. His face is paler than a horror-movie patient. ‘Right now. You really do.’

In the silence that follows, Romy laughs. ‘And what might they be?’ She scoffs, lifting her hand to slap the table. The noise is jarring, but Jay doesn’t look. ‘Huh, little boy?’

‘Shut up, Romy,’ Callum snaps, Kira close behind. Their eyes meet, and they almost smile.

Almost. ‘What is it?’ Callum asks. Jay is fidgety, eyes darting, nails scouring the doorframe. Kira’s stomach crawls.

‘It’s…’ He glances over his shoulder. Scratches his head, glances again. ‘It’s really…’

‘Hello?’ Romy waves at them, screeching back her chair. ‘Scarred-for-life memory bank over here. Can we focus on that? Yes, okay, I gave a child astonishingly strong liquor, but what the hell are these memories?’

Jay, the rock. Romy, the hard place. Kira pulls a gargoyle face at the fridge. Romy’s not wrong; she deserves an explanation, and a damn exceptional one. What does she have now? Knowledge? Memories? Knowledge meant to trigger memories? The whole story? More?

Looking at her sister from the corner of her eye, another wave of guilt descends. Caught not talking, not spewing bitterness, Romy is open, blank, and far less drunk than she’s choosing to act. A listening face, wide-eyed and aware.

Her eyes flick to Kira, and she reels it in at once. The sharp edge returns: the hooded eyes, the deliberate slouch, the smirk. Kira looks away. Romy can front all she likes, but she saw the slip. Her sister’s hurt. Hurt, and terrified.

‘What’s going on, Jay?’ Callum asks, touching Kira’s back. Jay’s still dithering, rocking on his heels. ‘How do you know we’ve got bigger problems?’

Jay stops his fevered rocking. ‘Wait.’

Spinning in the doorway, he disappears. A moment later, the TV chatters, full of bounce and sparkle. Kira frowns. The channel changes, from an overbright kids’ show to a stroppy tween show, to the drone of a British parliamentary debate.

‘Guys.’ Jay’s voice wobbles, up and down and back. ‘Guys, I’ve found it. Come here. Now.’

His urgency belies his age. Kira does as he says. Her stomach is no longer crawling; or rather, it is, but the creature inside has a hundred jagged legs. She tunes in to the TV with a breathy sense of dread.

A British channel, breaking news.

‘…Links between these murders, and those of two days ago in the Dutch town of Middelburg. The whereabouts of nineteen-year-old Kira McFadden, resident of the house where the Dutch murders took place and granddaughter of James and Helen, are still unknown. Anyone with information on either case is asked to come forward, via Devonshire police or Crimestoppers. In other news…’

Kira’s stomach bottoms out. Her hands hit her mouth. Jay’s channel-hopping, but her picture, taken by Macy in the autumn, is branded on her retinas. DOUBLE MURDER IN DEVON.

Granddaughter of James and Helen.

Another channel, breaking news. Kira’s head rings like a pretty little bell. She barely sees Callum, stepping up beside her. The breathy dread is an iron lung.

‘…Were discovered on the sofa, at 7:04 p.m. Police found this on the living room wall.’

The world collapses. Oh, god. Oh, hell. Kira gasps, or cries out, or both, buckling, clutching her stomach. Pain. The picture; the picture. She’s crumbling, exploding out, shattered, destroyed. Neat in black on the wall is a tree.

Sketchy, four branches. A line for the ground.

That would be enough, but no. Beneath it is a message: time to come home, girls.

Beneath that, the rocking chair that Romy came to love.

Whiteland. Her grandparents.

Granddaughter of James and Helen.

Time to come home, girls.

‘Police are looking for the couple’s granddaughter, Kira McFadden, who hasn’t been seen since the murders of her housemates in Middelburg, the Netherlands.’ The news presenter clears her throat. ‘Once again, in what looks like an unprovoked attack, an elderly couple have been stabbed to death in their home in Woolacombe, Devon.’ Another pause, for a serious face. ‘The victims have been named as Helen and James McFadden.’