‘They’re hoof prints,’ Louis tells her. Gaia stares at him, then inspects the hoof prints again. There are more of them in the room leading all the way to the door. She still feels tearful, but now she also feels curious. She remembers the story her mumma told her about the elk coming in the house.

Maybe it’s a sign.

The hoof prints continue, big muddy clods all the way down to the kitchen.

‘Come on!’ she tells Louis as she pulls open the kitchen door.

‘You should get a coat,’ he tells her, but she hasn’t got time for that. Mumma wants her to follow her and she hasn’t a minute to lose.

‘Sophie! Sophie! Wake up!’

I sat upright, mumbling about beetles, to find Maren stooped over me, her hair askew and her cardi inside out.

‘What time is it?’ I asked, checking my watch.

‘Gaia’s not in her bed,’ Maren said breathlessly. She’d obviously been running. She leaned on my bedframe, panting. The meaning of her words slowly sank into my brain.

‘What do you mean she’s not in bed?’ I asked. ‘Where is she?’

‘I don’t know, I don’t know …’

‘… have you checked the basement?’

‘She’s not in the house. The kitchen door was open …’

I shot out of bed as if the mattress had suddenly filled with hot coals.

‘Gaia!’ I shouted. ‘Gaia! Come on, now! Where are you?’

Maren did the same. Tom staggered down the stairs, his face blanched. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Gaia’s not in her room,’ Maren repeated. ‘I saw the kitchen door was open so I …’

Tom didn’t let her finish. He bolted to Gaia’s room, shouting her name, while Maren and I searched the rest of the house, just in case. It was snowing outside. I checked the playroom and found everything in place. Gaia’s paints and crayons were still in the drawer, her sketchpad unopened.

Maren paused at the door to the basement, throwing me a look.

‘Check it,’ I said, and she pulled back the lock and tugged the door open, flicking on the light before heading down.

‘Any sign?’ I called after her.

A few seconds later, an answer: ‘She’s not here.’

Tom raced outside into the snow. I heard him swear and ran after him. He glanced up at me. ‘She’s been outside.’

By his feet, another set of tracks. Small, Gaia-sized footprints, leading away from the house. She wasn’t wearing any shoes.

Tom raced off, calling and calling for her. I grabbed my coat and boots and followed suit, tears streaming down my face.

She was gone, nowhere to be seen, and for every second that she spent outside the house her life was in danger.

And it was entirely my fault.

   27   

Aurelia’s diary