Do you think they’ll do it?’ Carol asks. She’s broken the record five times over, but it’s all she can fix on. Callum and Jay are trapped between worlds; cops seeking missing girls in this one don’t compare.

Damn this village, though. Hazal’s doorbell rang—bonjour, Mesdames—and there were the police. Someone came forward, claiming to have seen Callum with Kira and Romy; one busybody or another, eager to stick their long nose in other people’s pies. Her shock was genuine: who would do that?

Hazily, she hoped it would come across as horror. How could someone be so wrong about Callum? She was righteous, hurt. Not guilty. Baffled.

The officers were baffled, too. They didn’t have to say it; their bedside manner was ruffled, disgruntled. They’d been sent to the early-morning mountains to question a woman in a blanket, on the basis of a note in England, a past connection to fugitives, and a nosy, gloating neighbour. Anyone would be peeved.

Yes, of course, she said, when their baffled queries petered out. Should she hear from him, she said, she’d call them at once.

She shut the door in tears. Will she hear from him? Ever?

‘I don’t know.’ Hazal sighs, balanced on a blade. ‘I never know a link between Whiteland and Urnäsch, but the Whispers say they try, so they try.’ She rubs her forehead. Her other hand grips a coffee cup to death.

Death. The Kyo. Talie.

Carol doesn’t know. If only she would leave. Hazal’s lungs hang heavy, sagging to the table. If it wasn’t for Carol; if it wasn’t for Callum; if it wasn’t for his obsession with Kira… Hazal clicks her ridged nails on the cup. Callum’s a nice boy, and Kira’s a nice girl, but nice people still cause chaos. They caused chaos before, and now, they’re affecting everyone.

The police came to Lally. The neighbours are watching. Lena’s twins have been sent away. Jay’s in Urnäsch, and Talie is dead.

Talie, dead. Lena, dead.

The bird clock chimes with a jay. ‘Carol.’ Hazal shuts her eyes. ‘Please. You need to go.’

The jay keeps squawking. Every cry is a kick.

Across the scratched wood, Carol blinks. She’d probably been speaking, but Hazal’s mind is scraping: if the Kyo have Talie, then she died in Whiteland.

Get out. Get out, get out, get out.

‘Sorry?’ Carol says. Her brown hair is ratty, her under-eyes wrinkled. Her eyes themselves are milky, glazed.

‘I like,’ Hazal pushes out, ‘you to go.’ Calm. Numb. Her sagging lungs have shrivelled, whistling with emptiness, tumbleweed, slipstreams, long-dead air. ‘All of today is too much for me. I think you understand?’

She has to understand. She has to leave. Everything suddenly points to Talie: the tub of madeleines by the microwave, that she claimed not to like then devoured. The velvet-cloaked wizard grinning on a hook, who she claimed to like, and later said was a galling error in judgment. The fish-shaped chalkboard beside the fridge: days passed without hating kids.

The tally chart is empty. They’ve only just arrived.

‘Really?’ Carol’s face is a masterpiece, da Vinci, Munch. The Scream. ‘With everything that’s happened?’

‘Yes.’ Palms splayed, Hazal stands. She’s heavy, so heavy. Too cold with the chimney’s winter draught. Too hot in her clothes. It’s all too much. ‘I like you to leave. Please.’

Over the table, their eyes meet. Carol’s laughter lines pull in. ‘Fine.’

Yes, this is selfish. Carol’s distressed, it’s more than clear, but Callum and Jay are alive. Probably together, with the hope of rescue. They may not be okay, but they’re more than madness, and madness, for Talie, is all that remains.

Talie. As Carol’s car snarls to life, Hazal’s legs stop working. Sliding down the wall, her head meets her knees. Her insides wrench. Her chest feels bloody.

Through her teeth, she screams.