The English girl waved as she walked past, though her eyes looked vague. Since their conversation by the fishpond, she’d cut her long hair short, and it fluffed about her ears like a blown dandelion. She perched on the empty seat next to him. The breakfast buffet offered a sumptuous spread, but the only thing on her plate was two pieces of wheat toast, thinly spread with butter. He eyed her new haircut with a twinge of alarm. Easier to manage, or had she chopped it off in a moment of distress? He hoped he hadn’t traumatised the poor girl.

She bit off a piece of toast. ‘I know who you are.’ She gave him a quick sidelong glance.

A muscle twitched in his jaw. She couldn’t possibly know such a thing. Or was the sad-girl demeanour an act, and she truly was mad? ‘I’m sorry, what?’ A chill passed through him, and he glanced at the gloomy skies through the window. How quickly the weather changed in the mountains.

‘My name’s Libby,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I mentioned it before.’ She pulled her cardigan tight around her thin chest and hugged her arms. ‘Anyway, I have a friend at St Catharine’s. She said one of her professors had a crack-up while getting some award.’ She nibbled her toast. ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’

The back of Vidor’s neck tingled. Though well known in the rarefied world of neuroscience, it had never occurred to him that anyone here, especially this slip of a girl, would possibly know who he was. Perhaps his recent groundbreaking work, celebrated enough to capture the million-euro Søgaard Prize, had catapulted him into the public sphere.

‘Funny, you’d be here.’ She scratched her wrist hard, until pink welts rose on her skin. ‘There was an article in the newspaper.’ She looked at him sadly. ‘And some moron posted a video online, though you probably haven’t seen it.’ She tilted her chin at the empty room. ‘Can you believe this place? No phones. No internet or newspapers. Crazy, right? Do they really think that locking us away from the real world is a good idea?’ She’d taken off her cardigan and gooseflesh stippled her arms. ‘And what happens when we get out? We’ll be like baby mice, unprepared for the onslaught that awaits us.’ She flung out her hand, knocking over a full glass of water, staring blankly, as it flooded the tablecloth and dripped onto the floor.

Vidor was disturbed by the naked quality of her distress. They weren’t supposed to ask, but if he did, he wondered if she would tell him why she was here.

‘Don’t worry.’ She abruptly stood and leaned in close until her warm breath tickled his ear. ‘Your secret is safe with me.’

* * *