‘He’s not here though, is he? You are, and that’s what we’ve got.’

When they both stepped outside, they were surprised at the violence of the weather. The gusty wind took hold of them and shook them hard. To the south, behind the bulk of the mountain, lightning flickered.

‘It’s only a storm, not like before,’ said Mary. She clutched at Dalip’s arm. ‘Fuck me, it’s cold.’

‘I did say.’

The grass was sharp and brittle under their feet as they trotted across to the guard house. Lights glimmered from the window slits, and more ominously, from the open door.

Dalip slowed, and he pulled Mary back.

‘We don’t want to fight them. But they won’t be happy. We’ve turned everything upside down for them.’

‘Fuck them.’

‘We still need to be careful.’

Dalip crossed the remaining distance, past the fire, to the steps up. The door was sideways in the doorway, deep scratches running against the grain of the wood. He leant it against the wall, and beckoned Mary in.

‘This isn’t good,’ she whispered.

‘Worked that out for myself.’

The room inside had a fire in the grate, drawing hard in the draught, crackling hard and burning bright. Chairs and tables were strewed across the floor, overturned, some broken, plates and mugs mixed in with the debris. There was a closed door in each of the far corners.

‘Left or right?’

‘Both of them, eventually. So it doesn’t matter.’ He thought of his grandfather, waving his age-spotted sword and screaming his defiance like he was still a young man facing his enemies. Then, the war-cries had been a party piece: now, he was repeating them silently, his tongue and lips finding their way around the syllables and accents of his ancestors. ‘Left.’

He picked his way across the floor, trying to be as quiet as possible, though he didn’t exactly know why. He put his fingertips against the door, gave it a little shove: it creaked a little, a crack of weak light opening out. He glanced around at Mary, who was busy shoving a fallen crust into her mouth.

‘What?’ she said, spitting out crumbs. ‘I’m fucking starving.’

He rolled his eyes and put the flat of his hand to the wood. The door swung aside.

It took a moment, then a moment longer, then a very long moment that only ended when Mary reached past him, leaning out around him so she didn’t have to set foot inside that back room, and pulled the door shut again.

‘No,’ she said. ‘No, no, no, no, no. No.’

She pulled him back, all the way to the entrance, and he let himself be led, unblinking, to where the wind buffeted his clothes and tugged at his loose hair.

Mary looked up at him, and he’d never thought of himself as tall until that moment.

‘You said a wolf. A wolf!’