When he dips his hand in the river, he knows immediately what has caused the river to take on a greasy appearance and a sluggish pace, and what has likely killed the shrews and stoats – the foam compound they’ve lined the bed with has disintegrated and melted in parts, mixing with the water. In some sections, it has gone entirely, liquefied and now pouring dozens of foreign agents into the fjord.

He phones Clive.

‘Tom, I did exactly as we discussed,’ Clive says. ‘I ordered the product from Oslo. Got the team to mix it and lay a new estuary in dry conditions. They did it all. I’ll phone the company, ask for a refund …’

‘Clive, Clive! I’m not worried about a refund, I’m worried about the water, for crying out loud! We can’t exactly filter this stuff out …’

A long pause. ‘Tom, you insisted on the foam compound, not me.’

‘Derry suggested the compound …’

‘You’re blaming Derry for this? Look, I suggested a plastic piping and you said it wouldn’t look right …’

‘Read me the list of what the foam contains.’

He hears rustling on the line as Clive digs through the office paperwork. ‘It just says it’s a high-density polyethylene.’

Tom hangs up. The water not only looks toxic, it smells it, too. He cups some of it in his palm and lifts it to his nose. It smells like plastic. Later, a Google search of the contents of the foam will tell him that he has just dumped a hundred pounds of butane, benzene, vinyl acetate, and other cancer-causing toxins into a river source that is certified as a Sustainable Destination by the Norwegian government and which nourishes thousands of plant, aquatic and animal species.

To think he wanted this project to be eco-friendly.

When he rises from the river, something near the trees catches his eye. A woman. Not Maren, Derry, or Aurelia, either. Someone else. The same woman he saw before. But when he looks again she’s gone.

‘Hello?’ he shouts, glancing through the trees. ‘Anyone there?’

He stares into the empty space where he’s sure he saw her just before. His skin crawls.

As he walks back to Granhus he has the distinct feeling that he is being watched.

It’s evening, and Aurelia’s reading Gaia stories from her father’s old journal of Norse folktales. Tonight Gaia has chosen the story about the man who transforms into a wolf, and despite her best efforts to direct Gaia to a less Gothic, child-friendlier story, Gaia won’t be placated. ‘The wolf story, Mumma,’ she insists. Aurelia sighs and tries to scan the story for the passage she needs to rephrase.