‘Your sister’s disappeared,’ she said, and Áróra felt the old emotions return: fear and anger. It hadn’t been long ago that those emotions would have dragged her off the sofa, out to the airport and all the way to Iceland. But they wouldn’t do that now. Instead they were joined by the feeling that accompanied anything to do with her sister Ísafold, and that was fatigue.

‘Mum, she’s probably just too busy to answer the phone.’

Áróra knew that protest, or any attempt to wriggle away, was doomed to failure once her mother had her teeth into something, but she tried anyway. She had just switched on the TV to watch a repeat of Wire in the Blood, her favourite crime series, and had been looking forward to spending the evening on the sofa.

‘She hasn’t answered the phone for two weeks now. That’s too long to be normal. And Björn doesn’t answer either, and I can’t figure out from this online Icelandic phone book how to find any of his family.’

Áróra sighed, taking care not to let her mother hear.

‘Does her phone just not ring, or is it engaged … or what?’

‘Nobody answers their home phone, and when I call her mobile it goes straight to voicemail.’

‘And have you tried leaving a message?’ Áróra asked, and heard her mother bristle.

‘Of course I’ve left messages. Time and again, but she doesn’t reply to them. It’s the same with Facebook, as you must have seen – she hasn’t put anything new on there for more than two weeks.’4

‘You know she blocked me on Facebook, Mum. I don’t see anything she posts.’

It didn’t matter how often she tried to explain it to her mother, she seemed unable to take on board that there was no contact between the sisters.

Her mother sighed heavily.

‘Oh, sweetheart, don’t be like that,’ she said with the familiar tone of voice that told Áróra she was being difficult, even though everything she had said had been the honest truth. Her mother would never dream of criticising Ísafold for being difficult, for not answering the phone, for not being in touch. After Ísafold had left home, when she was around twenty, it was as if she had become some sort of iconic being, while their mother had continued to treat Áróra like a teenager.

‘Do it for me. Go to Iceland. Check up on her.’