“We’ve looked in all the attic rooms. We can’t find her anywhere.” Charley sounds scared. Poppy’s pale face is streaked with tears. Izzy is gripping her hand tightly. Melissa follows them, shaking her head and looking frightened.

In the kitchen they meet Eric coming in through the garden door. “I’m getting Igor to search the woods now.” He is speaking in gasps. “We need flashlights. Call the police.”

Dirt is wedged under Charley’s fingernails. All their clothes are muddy from searching for Sorrel in the wood. Poppy says it’s okay because they are sitting on floorboards so it’s not like they are getting carpets dirty or anything. It’s cold up in the attic. The floor is splintery. They can hardly see one another. It’s getting late; they are hiding though no one seems to be looking for them.

“Which is pretty fucking incredible considering, and also typical. Jesus,” Poppy says; she sounds angry. “My sister is missing and they still don’t care where we are.”

“It’s like ten green bottles.” Izzy’s actually got green bottles, empty wine bottles, taken from the recycling box. She lines them up and pushes two over. “See? Two of us have gone now.”

“Sorrel hasn’t gone like Ash has gone,” Charley says, and stands one of the bottles back up. “She’s somewhere, obviously. We just need to find her.”

Izzy stares at her and she stares straight back. Charley doesn’t bother trying to be Izzy’s best friend like Poppy, nor is she under some sort of stupid spell like her brother. Blake looks different from how he used to, smaller, though that’s not possible—people don’t shrink if they’re unhappy, or do they?

Izzy reaches under the bed where they keep the dice and candles and stones and matches. “We are going to play another game. It’ll take our minds off all this stuff.” She doesn’t light the candle, though; she pulls a packet of cigarettes from her pocket and lights one up. She offers them around but nobody takes one.

“We should carry on looking for Sorrel,” Charley says.

“You playing?” Izzy asks Blake, without taking any notice of what Charley said. Blake scratches his scalp like he’s got lice, though it’s probably dried mud. He nods because he never says no to Izzy, but he looks worried—not that anyone would notice, except Charley.

“I’ll go first.” Izzy rattles the dice in the cup and throws them on the floor. She looks at the dice then she picks them up and writes down the numbers in her little book, which she keeps in the back pocket of her jeans. It’s too difficult to remember them otherwise, she says.

“Are you completely sure you’re writing them down right?” Charley asks, but Izzy doesn’t answer. Charley doesn’t want to play, but if she does that means there are more of them, which means Blake’s less likely to lose. It doesn’t help because Blake ends up losing anyway. He’s brave, her brother, braver than her, because he doesn’t make one sound. She is the one who ends up with tears streaming down her face.