She was too exhausted to go any faster. At that moment when she felt all was lost, she saw the outline of two fir trees standing close together. Covered in snow, in the twilight they looked like the skirts of dancing ladies, and without another thought, she pushed through them. She was in a tunnel of soft green branches, and suddenly she was through them and in a clearing. The light seemed brighter there, and a little way off stood a small dwelling in a sea of untouched snow. She went closer, called softly. There was no reply. The door was hanging off its hinges and inside snow dusted the floor. The place was derelict.

Edith had no more strength left in her. She sat on the floor, the violin in her lap, and waited. It wouldn’t be long now until the butcher arrived. As she was thinking this, she became aware that she couldn’t hear him calling and no dogs were barking. In the peaceful silence, darkness enveloped her and, shivering, she lay down, curled into a ball, the violin next to her. She closed her eyes and let sleep take her in its warm arms.

On the edge of dreaming, she heard a voice say, ‘I am here, I am beside you.’

Chapter Twenty-Four

Walking Between Two Worlds

Edith sees her grandmother, a golden crown on her head. She sits cradling an ancient book. Words seep from its pages, letter by letter they free themselves from sentences.

‘Busy little ants,’ her grandmother says. ‘The letters run away, taking the full stops with them.’ She smiles at Edith. ‘So you are here. Better get up. No good lying there tangled in that dress – unless you want to die. Do you want to die? Come on now, conjure yourself up.’

Edith has no voice to answer her.

‘I can hear you all the same,’ her grandmother says. ‘You know this place. I told you of it many times – of its forest, of its cabin. Of the stranger who comes from far away and brings a different kind of magic. He is preparing you a feast.’

Should she be frightened?

‘Stir your bones, girl, stir your bones.’

Edith kneels. It’s dark but the light of the moon shows her a stove, a chair.

‘There’s wood,’ she hears her grandmother say. ‘And look, a dead man’s coat made of good, warm wool.’

It’s hard fighting sleep. All she wants to do is lie down again. It seems a long journey to the chair. Blind fingers, bone cold, she crawls across the floor until she collides with a mix of wooden legs and soft fabric. A coat, a chair. She laughs and puts the coat round her. It’s lined with sheepskin, its smell familiar, comforting.

‘Good with the needle was your love,’ says her grandmother. ‘Warmer now.’

It seems to Edith that her grandmother’s words ignite the kindling in the stove and catches it alight.