We’re on a collision course with Sarah and Marley, linking arms near the stairwell down to the tuckshop. Ally is practising some seriously filthy dance moves on the banister. She looks like obscure European royalty but she doesn’t always act that way.

Natalia fixes her supernatural eyes on me.

‘I don’t know if you’ve got the right look.’ I bite my lip. Who am I kidding? My vision for the photo keeps dissolving every time I try to grab onto it.

I try to look at Natalia objectively, and mentally adjust what I’ve been picturing.

‘You look otherworldly enough…but too dangerous for what I’ve got in mind. It’s supposed to look like a fairytale gone wrong. You’re more of a mean pixie type, or the old sort of fairy. The kind who tangles mortals in wishes and promises, and tricks them into eating fairy food so they can’t return to the human world.’

This alone should be nerdy and insulting enough for permanent excommunication, but instead something flashes inside Natalia, an extra spark of interest. Up until now I could have sworn she was playing with me.

‘All of those girls come from in-between places.’ She points at my folio. ‘Dead and alive. Heaven and hell. Or some other place and the real world.’

‘Yes, that’s it,’ I say with shock in my voice. That’s better than I could have described it. Maybe that’s what I’m aiming for.

‘Give me your phone, Cardell.’

She calls herself on my phone, while still keeping a close eye on her friends.

‘You know what makes me sick?’ she says. ‘Everyone skating along the surface and not talking about what’s really happening.’

She’s lost me. ‘I need to think about it more. I’ll let you know.’

She hands me my phone. ‘Well, when you decide yes, I’ll be waiting.’

‘Right,’ I nod. ‘Okay.’

She joins her friends and they pour like oil through the corridor in the way that they do.

DAY 34

Mum beckons for me to join her in the lounge room. The six o’clock news is just starting, and the anchorwoman is saying something about Yin.

My heart stops. ‘Did they find her?’

‘I don’t think so.’

I sit close to Mum on the couch, my heart beating again.

Yin’s parents appear on screen, looking a little stunned. They’ve both aged in the last five weeks. You can tell from the camera flashes and the clusters of microphones that the press conference is jammed full.

This time it isn’t Mr Mitchell that speaks. Yin’s mum reads from a sheet of paper held in shaking hands. The faintest trace of an accent runs through her words.