Clive and Derry had decided to spend Christmas with friends in Ålesund. Maren said she would stay at Granhus, which I thought was kind of sad, and also scary – not only would she be spending Christmas alone, but she would be in Granhus, where ghostly women and trespassing elk seemed commonplace. But if there was anyone who had proved to be up to the task of dealing with the bizarre, it was Maren. I’d caught wind of how calm she’d remained when the drill struck Dag. ‘He had a hole in his skull the size of a fist,’ one of the men told Clive. ‘Pouring blood. I could see bone and brain. She put her bare hand on the flap of bone and pushed it back in place, wrapping the bandage around with the other.’ I worked up the courage to tell her about Dora, deflecting her initial shock by quickly asking if she would mind feeding her while we were gone. Astonishingly, Maren was quite sympathetic to the idea of a rescue bird concealed in the playroom, or perhaps she was just still in shock at my deviousness. Either way, she agreed to care for her, and off we went.

Oslo was magical. We visited the Viking museum, where I was delighted to find an actual ship from 800 AD sitting right there in the gallery. Gaia was fascinated to learn about the dead Viking queen being buried in the ship with cooking utensils, horses (also dead), and that she was buried not in a coffin but neatly tucked into her favourite bed. After that, we got on a train and headed to Bergen, where we caught the Hurtigruten ferry. It was more of a cruise ship than a ferry, with comfortable plush suites, viewing decks, and amazing food. The girls and I spent all our time staring out of the windows at the sea eagles we’d see drifting over the snow-capped mountains that lay on either side of the ship, waving at other boats as they passed by, or attending lectures about trolls and fjords. A few days later, we crossed the Arctic Circle and arrived at Tromsø, where Tom had rented an apartment.