By far the strangest moment in those early days, was the morning I woke to find muddy hoof prints – like two devil horns – on the floor of my bedroom. They came all the way through the hallway right up to my bed. Actual hoof prints. I touched the mud with my fingertips to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. The prints stopped by the side of my bed, as though a moose had crept into the house at night and then stood over me as I slept.

The following night, as I watched Gaia sleep – her holding tightly on to me – I knew it wouldn’t be fair to leave her. The reason she woke screaming every night was clear to me – she was missing her mother in a way that she could barely understand. And at night and in her dreams, a hot, surging undertow of confusion and grief coursed through her so strongly I could almost feel it in my arms.

That night, I held her until morning. And she didn’t scream at all.

   8   

THE RIVER

Then

Tom wishes he hadn’t agreed to this. The land, and therefore the river, belongs to him, and despite a nerve-shredding visit from a stern surveyor earlier in the week, he is free to build their house as planned. Well, he’s free to build once full planning consent is granted, but the paperwork has been filed, the plans have been drawn, and Clive is drafting contracts for the construction team. In the meantime, he is trying to figure out how to divert the river so that they can build on the section of land that offers the best view of the fjord. Aurelia’s correct – the part of the cliff that noses outward over emerald green hills and plunging valleys all the way to Ålesund is by far the best spot for their house. Better yet, he won’t have to cut down any more trees if he builds here, as the site is in a clearing – but he will have to sort out the minor problem of the river that winds all the way down the hill and over the cliff into the fjord.

‘I can’t do it,’ the engineer says. Mr Ragnar Saltvedt, recommended by the head of the construction team who have agreed in principle to build Basecamp. A big square-shaped man with an acne-scarred face and shaggy brown hair.

Tom looks from the river to Ragnar. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand. You can’t do it or you won’t do it?’

‘Both,’ Ragnar says with a grimace. He looks down at the small lick of water that trickles weakly over the stones in the groove of land that acts as a riverbed. ‘You have no permit from the Environment Agency.’

Tom shifts his feet. He hadn’t thought he’d need approval for something like this. ‘The what?’