I shrug out of my coat and hang it over a chair, but I misjudge the distance and it drops to the floor. Stig grabs it for me and I smile a thank-you, glad of his help.

Mum coughs. ‘I’ve been thinking – I could sell the house in London and move here.’

Stig looks at Mum expectantly, then takes himself off to sit by the stove. I haven’t thought about the future properly. Maybe I’ve been purposefully avoiding it – not wanting to think about how Stig and I will be together exactly, just hoping that we would.

‘We can both live here together,’ I say.

Mum frowns. ‘You don’t have to stay out here with me. Watering the tree is my responsibility.’

‘But I want to be here with you and Stig!’

‘You’re seventeen, Martha. You have your education to think about. I’m sure you can stay with Dad. If you don’t want to go to school, we can arrange some kind of home tutor.’

‘But, Mum, I can get the ferry to a college on the mainland. Some of them must offer classes in English – and anyway, I want to learn Norwegian.’

Mum raises an eyebrow.

It’s only been a few days since I left home, but so much has changed. Whatever happens with Stig and me, I don’t want to hide away any more. And I need to learn Norwegian so I can read the journals for myself.

‘If you’re sure.’ Mum smiles and I wrap my arms around her. Her yellow chiffon scarf crackles with energy. Chiffon holds a person’s daydreams, and an image comes to me now: she’s standing in a large sunlit room, teaching students to paint.

Mum used to sell her paintings at a major art gallery in London, but she stopped around the time Dad left. I used to love going to her openings; I was so proud of how talented she is. She’s never mentioned wanting to teach, but I think she’d be brilliant at it. A shiver of excitement runs through me. Dad signed over the house to her after the divorce. It must be worth a lot – easily enough to get something out here.

‘Mum, there’s an old guest house for sale by the harbour. What about doing it up and running an artists’ retreat? The light there is amazing and so are the views.’

‘I don’t know. It would be a lot of work.’

I point at Stig, who is throwing a log on the fire, but she only frowns in reply. Stig could help do the place up; I know he could. It would be fun to meet new people. Maybe I could take their coats at the door and then use my gift to help them make the right decisions in life, so they don’t die with regrets. The idea of using my gift to help people feels right somehow.