Charging in from the cold with Jay, the first thing is the luggage.
The second is Kira, straight-backed, pale, tapping her knee up and down.
The third is Callum, guarding his woman like she’s just been crowned the king.
‘Mary, mother of god,’ Romy says, unclipping Diego’s lead. ‘Who’s died?’
It was meant as a joke, but only Jay laughs, a ‘ha!’ that chokes bad taste.
Callum ducks his head. Kira does nothing, tapping that goddamn knee. Romy nudges the door shut. ‘What’s going on?’ she asks, guarded, looking between the mannequins. ‘No one has died, right?’
Stiffly, Kira stands. Callum looks at her. ‘We’re going to Urnäsch,’ he says, so naturally that it jars. ‘To the Chlause.’
Romy blinks. ‘What?’ Her insides gnash their teeth, but less. Her packet went down the loo. ‘Since when?’
‘Since I was seen on the train.’ Kira moves to the bags, and the clothes on top. Christ, she looks ill. ‘And since the police turned up, with the fun fact that Callum’s postcode was on the note with his name. The news left that bit out.’ She yanks a hoodie over her head. ‘They’ll come back, and soon. If one person says they’ve seen me, I’m sure others will, too.’
‘Probably people in the village,’ Callum adds. ‘We should have been more subtle.’
Tugging the hoodie down, Kira pauses. ‘I should have been more subtle.’
Callum frowns, but says nothing. ‘Either way’—he tosses Romy a sweatshirt, patterned with Stark wolves—‘we need to leave, before Mum gets back. I figured she wouldn’t approve.’
Slowly, heavily, Romy slumps, thumping against the sofa. The police were here, asking questions. The police were here, and now they’re running, to an unknown, supernatural exile. Through all of this, it’s finally real: they’re in trouble. ‘Callum, too?’
For the briefest moment, Callum hesitates. ‘Callum, too.’ He catches Romy’s eye. She looks him dead in the face, and shifting, he looks away. ‘I don’t want to be arrested, and someone wants me dead.’
At least those last two things are true. Romy nods. ‘Okay. Let’s go.’
‘Good luck, musketeers,’ Jay calls. Through the frosted arch, they leave the chalet lights behind, out to the black-iced road. The frozen dark is colder than last night, but wrapped in a tumult of Callum’s clothes, she’s relatively warm.
Not that she needed it, after Jay’s comments. He saw her and Romy in their oversized jumpers, with old ski jackets over their coats, and laughed: ‘You’re Callum’s groupies.’
‘Only one of us.’ Romy winked.
Jay winked back: ‘Yeah, I know.’
Oh, how Kira burned, and burns again at the thought. He could have heard anything, but now at least, her mind is hers alone.
Alone to worry, and question, and dwell; on her unspoken doubt over what they’re doing, on her dawdling guilt over Callum coming, too. On her grief about her grandparents, padlocked in a bawling box. On her grief, her confusion, her longing over Mathew.
On the news reports, looped in her mind. On the horror of the huldra, and the Whispers, and the Kyo. On her earlier terror, her current fear. Now that her thoughts are private again, she can feign bravado with the best.
‘Can trees watch you?’ Romy asks, when they reach the deserted car park. ‘It feels like they’re sizing me up, and don’t much like what they see.’
‘That depends.’ Kira watches her sister shrewdly eyeing the trees. She looks like she’s sizing them up and doesn’t much like what she sees. ‘In some books, they speak Latin.’ She runs a gloved hand through her hair. The ends are frosted white. ‘Is there…?’ Her gaze snags on a shadowed cabin. ‘There is. I thought there was. Does anyone else need the loo?’
Romy tuts, wagging a finger. ‘Should have gone before we left.’
Her dad-voice is perfect, and it hurts. Kira turns away. ‘I’ll see you in a minute.’
The flickering striplight is automatic, and for a moment, she’s perfectly still.
‘Here.’
He turns Kira to face him. A burning overrides her indignation, and she squeaks. ‘Sorry.’ He lets go. ‘I didn’t realise.’
Kira flexes her fingers. In, pain. Out, relief. ‘Neither did I.’ He motions for her to look up, hold still. ‘And I’m getting the feeling I should learn first aid.’ A little dry, a little rueful as he tends to her cheeks. ‘This is the second time in two days you’ve had to fix my face.’
Kira closes her eyes. The past settles around her, a fluttering sheet on a summer’s night. She was lighter then, and younger. A year isn’t long, but thinking about it, Callum was lighter, too.
‘It’s not normally like this, trust me. The most exciting thing that happened before yesterday was…’ He screws up his forehead. ‘Actually, never mind. Nothing exciting has ever happened. It’s all bickering neighbours and figuring out why there are so few people, yet so many cats.’
Kira opens her eyes. Right.
‘Never again.’ Callum shakes his head the second she exits the toilets. ‘I’m forbidding you to leave me alone with your sister ever, ever again. Ever.’ He glances at Romy. A wry smile plays at his mouth, but he looks like she’s dragged him through the forest by his hair. ‘There’s been some…questioning.’
Romy shrugs. ‘Honestly, I’d go full hog and call it interrogation.’
Kira’s eyebrows fly. ‘Romy!’ she cries. The burning threatens to reawaken; if this doesn’t stop, she’ll start to steam, like a bubbling winter Jacuzzi. ‘Why?’
‘I had to be sure of his intentions.’ Romy spreads her hands at once. ‘Make sure he’s pure of heart, you know. Honourable and true.’ She prods Callum with a bitten nail. ‘We can’t be going on a magic trip with a scallywag and a rogue.’
Aghast. Exasperated. Cringing. Proud. Caught in the riot, Kira stares. ‘Great.’ She sighs, and lets them slide. She’d love to moan, but despite herself, her gravity is lifting.
It’s more surprising than it should be. Last time, they were light, and bright, even in the depths of Whiteland; there’s nothing to say they can’t be now. Maybe fighting the sense of wrong will help them all survive.
‘You’re forgetting some vital points, Romy.’ Sardonically, Callum regards her, the way he’d humour a toddler whose argument is flawed. ‘Not only did this rogue jump through hoops in your hour of need, but, and correct me if I’m wrong’—his lips twitch at Kira—‘he’s already been on a magic trip with your sister. I think I’ve passed.’
Planting a hand on her hip, Romy pouts. ‘But Callum,’ she moans. ‘You’re ruining my turn.’
‘Your turn at what?’
Kira rolls her eyes. They’re all lightening, brightening, sticking their heads above water; either that, or they’ve all gone mad.
‘I wanted to be the older sister.’ Romy tugs on her rucksack straps like a child. ‘She does it all the time.’
Lower down the mountain, an engine growls. ‘Being the actual older sister, I get all the turns.’ Kira cuts her gaze to the road. ‘And I’m sorry to end this really good talk, but if we’re going, I think we should go.’ She gestures vaguely. ‘That could be Carol.’
Turning to Callum, she glimmers with guilt. Carol will let herself in, oblivious, and one of her sons will have gone. She’ll stand and stare at the cutting dark. Her stomach will drop, and she’ll think of Whiteland, of how she lost him once before.
She’ll curse the cops. She’ll curse the Kyo. She’ll curse the girl who took him away.
‘You know you can still go back, right?’ Kira’s guilt balloons to black. She can’t look at Callum, so she squints at the road, at the glinting ice and the trees. ‘You have your home here, your family.’
Callum lifts his chin minutely. ‘I do.’
The engine growls louder. ‘And,’ Kira says, shifting her rucksack. His steadiness is throwing her off. ‘And we’ve no idea what’ll happen in Urnäsch. We could end up anywhere, for any length of time. Time we can’t predict.’ She sets her jaw. ‘Things we can’t predict.’
‘All the more reason to start the introductions.’
‘No.’
Callum nods at the road. ‘Come on.’ He starts toward the field. ‘The more I hear that car, the more I’m sure it’s Mum’s stress-driving. Any minute now we’ll get the dulcet tones of Korn.’
Romy snorts. ‘Your mum does not listen to Korn.’
‘No.’ He spins to walk backwards. ‘It’s often James Blunt, but Korn is a better image. Ah.’ He cocks his head. ‘Wrong James.’ Humming an off-key version of “Hold Back the River,” he spins back around. ‘Allons-y.’
He heads across the car park, humming. It could be Korn, or any number of Jameses; above the engine, the music is faint, barely more than strains.
Kira follows Callum’s lead, and makes for the field. Either way, they need to go.
‘Hey.’ Tapping her arm, Romy falls into step. ‘Remember how you doubt everything?’
Kira blinks. ‘No?’
‘Yes.’ Romy drops the words beneath her breath. ‘You shouldn’t. Not with him.’
Kira skirts a stack of logs. ‘You’re being vague.’
‘I’m really not.’ Romy nods ahead. ‘You know what I mean. The scallywag. The banter bus, the rogue.’ The car hits the corner, and they step off the tarmac, shadows in the shadow of a tree. ‘He has my seal of approval.’
A smile starts in Kira’s chest and winds its way to her face.
Romy elbows her. ‘That’s cheered you up.’
Playing not a James at all but something just as weepy, the car snarls around the bend. ‘No,‘ Kira lies, biting at her grin. ‘I’m smiling at the seal of approval.’
Technically, she’s smiling at both, but no one needs to know. It’s nice to keep the fluttery little feelings to herself.
‘Oh!’ Romy claps her hands, stepping from the shadows. ‘The seal of approval! Arf, arf, arf!’
‘Precisely.’ Kira mimics her, with somewhat less panache. ‘Remember when it embarrassed us?’
Romy grins. ‘Very much.’ The grin wavers. ‘That was the point.’
It was. The seal was Mathew’s speciality, after he’d met a boyfriend, or seen a school play, or when Anna was getting dressed up. Kira’s own smile slips.
‘Ladies?’ On the edge of the field, Callum stops. ‘Are we taking this magic trip?’
Thank God for Callum. Latching on to the subject change, Kira hooks it with both hands. ‘Talking of the seal of approval.’ She bumps Romy’s hip. ‘What suddenly made you his champion? I thought you annoyed each other.’
‘Hello?’ Theatrically, Callum taps his wrist. In the moonlight, he looks like an otherworldly visitor, bright, white, and washed out. The night itself is ghostly, electric: crackling wires, an unknown journey. Back where it all began.
‘Without you to mediate, we do.’ Romy drops her voice. ‘He’s sarcastic, and buffoon-y, but he cares about you. I reckon, deep, deep inside, the Boris thing goes away.’
‘Boris?’
Sagely, Romy nods. ‘Johnson. Boris Johnson, oh hello, watch me ride my bicycle.’
‘Romy.’
‘Aren’t I funny, la-di-da, I’m having a jolly good jaunt discombobulating the world.’
‘Okay!’ Lifting her hands, Kira battles a grin. ‘Ten out of ten. I get it. You and Jay are saying the same, so I’ll be gracious’—she eyes her pointedly—‘and let those nuggets pass.’
Romy emits a bursting ‘ha!’ ‘Jay? You talked about romance with Jay?’ She gawps at Kira. ‘Jay’s like, twelve.’
The pointed look becomes a glare, and a spirited one. ‘He reads minds.’
Romy laughs. ‘Oh, yeah. Of course he does.’ Crouching, she scrapes for a snowball. ‘How could I forget? It’s a circus up in here.’
‘I think you mean freak show,’ Callum says, as they finally reach the field. ‘The worst thing in circuses are clowns.’ He smirks. ‘Thanks for joining me, by the way.’
Romy tosses the snowball up in the air. ‘Eavesdrop much?’
‘Not usually.’ Somehow, he looks both innocent and smug. ‘Don’t worry. I missed the rest of the chin-wag.’ He turns to the field. ‘Where to?’
He sweeps his arm around the snow. A flash of last year’s disbelief darts through Kira, from when the abnormal was strange; they’re seeking salvation in a moonlit field, from knights in outcast armour. Is that better or worse than relying on branches, or the whims of phosphorescent birds?
‘Talie said there’s a chalet, and it’s pretty much straight ahead.’ Kira twists her mouth, at the winter trees, at the bare, vacant land. There’s not so much as a fox, or a shadow, let alone salvation. ‘Her instructions were very fairy-tale, but that was the general gist.’
‘Like getting to Neverland,’ Romy says.
‘Or following special branches.’
Kira looks across at Callum, open and surprised. ‘Yes.’ She smiles. He dips his chin. ‘Like that, and everything else. Don’t talk to the bishop-fish, but the rest taste delicious.’
Callum tilts his head toward her. ‘Or—’
‘Yes, yes, the good old days.’ Wedging herself between them, Romy slaps their shoulders, grips them tight, and steers them across the snow. ‘Murderous worlds and crazy people: the nostalgia gets us all. Sadly, though, we’re stuck in the first, and the second won’t find themselves.’
Callum shoots Kira a crooked side-smile. Romy continues to chunter, and they let her push them on.