She’s being strange and I don’t like it. The vibrating restarts in my body, from the feet up.

‘Are you done?’ It comes out harsher than I mean it to.

Petra backs away incrementally, then turns properly. Audrey is waiting for her by the water bubbler, a snarky look on her face. I wiggle my fingers at her and smile wide and fake, because it drives Audrey wild with jealousy whenever Petra gets chummy with anyone who isn’t a boarder and who she can’t keep her big green eyes on.

‘Don’t worry—I’m not stealing your wife!’ I yell.

Somehow I’ve come down with a cold on the way home from school. My skin is on fire and my head aches so I put on my favourite soft-as-marshmallow pyjamas and light all of my candles all at once and can’t put down Picnic at Hanging Rock once I’ve started.

It’s the turn of the century and a party of girls and teachers from a ritzy private boarding school go on an excursion to Hanging Rock, which the traditional and rightful owners call Ngannelong because after what Chloe said I’m not going to be totally ignorant, and after lunch when everyone is sated and languid four of the schoolgirls walk off on their own.

Even though the language is outdated and there are descriptions that go on for half a page and the author is totally obsessed with ‘bosoms’, the school and the teachers in the book aren’t that different to Balmoral, not really. And from the moment the group of young girls go off on their own, my skin starts to tingle.

I can see them, in their long white dresses, pale and hopeless and weak, the opposite of angry modern girls. The massive Rock looms, wild and covered with trees, full of dark crevasses and winding tracks that lead nowhere. These floppy, flower-petal girls are no match for it, I can feel it already.

Something bad is going to happen to them.

Dylan Thomas slides under the covers with me, leaving only the tip of his tail poking out. I let the bad feelings I’ve been keeping at bay seep into bed with me too, a familiar pressing, hovering grey cloud.

Serial offender. Connected with the school. Detailed profile. Returned safely.

I breathe in the grey cloud and it’s a relief to give into the fog for once. Dylan Thomas presses into my side and rumbles like a tiny tiger.

The messages start at 9 p.m., while everyone is watching the late news. The police have held the predicted press conference and the profile has been released.

I click the link that Marley has sent us. ‘HUNT FOR DOCTOR CALM’, says the headline.