A flash of movement catches my attention. I only caught a glimpse, but it looked like the ghost I saw in the cabin – the girl with short dark hair, wearing a shift dress. I press my palm to the cold glass. It can’t be! And then I remember how I dropped the cord because I wanted to make sure Mormor went back to the underworld. What if I let go too soon?

I pick up a journal from the bed and flick through it, sure I’ve seen her face before. And then it comes to me. The photo on Stig’s phone: the girl on the trapeze wire. Nina!

A chasm opens up within me and dark thoughts rush inside.

When I saw her before, I thought she was glaring accusingly at me, but what if she was looking at Stig? He said he’d been helping her train – maybe he was the one who didn’t do up her harness properly. He was so jumpy when Yrsa knocked on the door; perhaps he is on the run.

I drop to the bed, my mind whirling. When I touched Stig’s rag of regret, it tried to show me something about Nina, but I didn’t want to see. As soon as Stig opened his eyes, he said her name. What if he saw her ghost; she might be haunting him because she wants revenge.

Stig’s coat held such anger, but that was his dad, not him. I’m sure Stig wouldn’t hurt anyone. A familiar ache spreads in my chest. I wish Mormor were here. She would know what to do. I can almost hear her voice, urging me to trust my instincts and speak to him. My shoulders drop with relief; my decision is made. Before Stig leaves for Oslo, I will make him tell me the truth. Whatever it is, it’s better to know.

Determined to put it out of my head, I open the door to Mormor’s wardrobe and smile to see her bunad. It was always special to her. She wore it on her birthday and special occasions, and if I begged enough, she’d put it on just to make me grin.

I reach for the wooden hanger, careful to avoid touching the material, and lay it out on the bed. There’s a white blouse, over which sits a blue bodice and a full skirt embroidered with colourful flowers. Seeing it fills me with sadness, but thinking about the times she wore it makes me happy too.

I touch the costume and see a girl with long blonde hair, no older than six, clapping her hands as her grandmother dances under the tree, twirling her long skirt. The girl is me! Joy fills my chest as I see myself through Mormor’s eyes. The love she feels for me is so profound, so perfect.