He flips the page over and begins to draw the floorplan. Three storeys, four en-suite bedrooms, a large open-plan living space with a lift transferring them to the top of the cliff, even a rooftop garden. It’s insanely ambitious, but there’s freedom in hitting rock bottom. The destruction of Basecamp has wiped the slate clean, wiped out his finances and obliterated his pride – and what he’s left with is raw creative energy driven by a need to fulfil his promise to Aurelia. He’s back to being a passionate, neurotic postgrad, wondering if he’ll ever be paid to design so much as a garden shed. His father got to be right – Tom failed as he predicted, and he had to bail him out. Screw paying his dad back. Tom will go to the banks, or friends, for another loan, start again on the new house. The real nest. Aurelia’s Nest. A place where she will feel safe, and happy. Like her old self.

When he finishes the sketches he gets up, gives a huge stretch and a few air punches. Then he heads to the kitchen to make coffee.

In the kitchen, Gaia is standing on a chair by the sink, hair wild as candyfloss, looking out of the window at the trees.

‘Good morning, pudding,’ he says, planting a kiss on top of her head. ‘Mummy still asleep?’

‘Mumma ran away,’ she says.

‘Have you had breakfast yet?’ He rummages in the fridge. They’re almost out of almond milk. He’ll head into the village today and pick up some more.

‘Mumma’s gone,’ Gaia says. ‘I can’t see her.’

‘Gone?’ he says absent-mindedly. ‘Where’s Mummy gone?’

‘She’s gone. Gone.’

He pours oatmeal into a bowl, adds the last of the almond milk. Tosses it in the microwave. Life is great. He whistles happily and does a little dance, the idea of the house still buzzing brightly in his head. In a moment he’ll go upstairs and check on Aurelia, see if she wants him to make her a cooked breakfast. Sod it, he’ll just make it and surprise her. Then he’ll tell her that he’s going to build her house.

Several miles downstream, Aurelia’s body floats face-down in the water, coming to rest against a bank of ferns and reeds. Her lips are parted, her blonde hair streams outward like pondweed. A fox starts, then dabs at her nightdress with a paw.

She will remain in this corner of the fjord for a week, currents tugging her beneath the water and hard against the rocks, rain beating down on the ballooning tent of her dress as though it might yet wake her up.

‘Can I get you anything?’