Ben’s cottage had its half-door open. He took care not to lean his face in too close. The glow of the hearth inhabited the dark without disturbing it. Flames had long fallen, and embers were few. He rapped on the door and caught that familiar scent of cabbage, overboiled and sulphuric, probably the same batch from Wednesday now reduced to a stale broth.

Chloe was across from him – a hood of fur hiding her head – knocking on the other cottage. Its shutter and door were both locked, their wood streaked with a green mould.

Nobody was home.

‘Let’s keep going,’ she said. ‘We’re nearly there.’

Ben’s jeans had tightened and shrunk, shortening his stride. That discomforting, wet sensation had given way to a prosthetic numbness. He was aware of each step – he could hear his socks plunging in his boots – but there was no feeling below the waist. The burning and the throbbing were reserved for his fingers, his ears, his nose, and anything else exposed.

He had saved Chloe another plunge by carrying her over the flood. Ben was aware of how the cold affected her, how it turned her skin a limpid blue. She had looped her arms around his neck like Aoife used to. Somehow they seemed to weigh the same.

‘What if they don’t talk to us?’ he asked. ‘I mean, they weren’t especially chatty the last time we were here.’

‘Once they know that we know, they’ll talk,’ she replied.

‘How are we for time?’

‘Don’t think about that,’ Chloe said, looking ahead. ‘We’ll be fine.’

We’ll be fine? Ben imagined Alec Sparling ensconced in front of his fireplace, tumbler in hand, sheltered and warm as his housekeeper prepared him his next hot meal. He was fine. Their situation was deviating towards the dire.

They were nearing the turn into the village, where the path widened. Whatever awaited them was hidden behind a mass of brambles; seized and conquered by black, bloodless veins of ivy. Ben had expected to hear voices up ahead but there was nothing, only the squelch of their boots and the cheerless creak of trees in the wind.

What a stage for Ben’s final act – Tír fucking Mallacht, the closest thing to hell this side of life. But if anyone knew some way to ward off the creeper’s coming, it was the villagers; the same superstitious fools that Ben had pitied for all the wrong reasons.

They both stopped when they reached the corner.

There was no dishevelled horde waiting to meet them. The village looked deserted.