He hastily grabs his stuff and follows me up the porch steps and into the cabin. I close the door behind us, then kneel down and scratch the dog between the ears. Holding his head between my hands, I stare into his eyes. What am I doing, Gandalf? I don’t know this guy and he broke into my grandmother’s house. My dead grandmother’s house.

Gandalf grins – he has one of those doggy faces that’s always smiling – and wags his tail so hard it might drop off. I watch in wonder as he sits at the boy’s feet and stares up at him. The boy pats the dog with a smile, and anger rises inside me. ‘It’s just for tonight.’

‘Thank you. I won’t get in your way.’ He holds out his hand. ‘My name is Stig.’

‘Martha.’

Perhaps realising I’m in no mood for formal greetings, he clasps his hands behind his back and smiles awkwardly, revealing two perfect dimples. The way he rocks on his heels, he could be a gentleman from another era, not a twenty-first-century goth boy.

My coat pocket vibrates. I must have forgotten to switch off the alarm. I blink at the screen in surprise: 8.00 a.m. But Norway is an hour on; that means it’s nine o’clock here. How can it be morning when it’s pitch black outside?

Stig seems to read my mind. ‘Won’t get light for an hour or so.’

I glance at the dark kitchen window. No point trying to sleep now. I may as well clean up. I put some food and water down for Gandalf, then start on the dishes, ignoring Stig’s insistent offers to help. When I’m done, I grab a chair to my left, but misjudge the distance and slump down awkwardly, nearly falling over.

Stig reaches out a hand. ‘Are you O—’

I glare at him, my face hot with embarrassment.

He holds up his hands and takes a quick step back. ‘Sorry, sorry!’

The way he says it reminds me of the boys on the ferry. I rest my chin in my hands, wondering if things could get any worse.

Stig loiters at the edge of my vision. ‘Can I get you some coffee maybe?’

My head throbs as if I haven’t slept for days. I give the briefest nod, then rub my temples. The sound of the water boiling in the saucepan is weirdly mundane. I guess there’s no need to tell him where to find things. I watch him slide out a drawer and pick out a teaspoon. He looks totally at home. It only annoys me more. He spoons coffee grounds into the saucepan, but doesn’t crack an egg into the mixture first, like Mormor used to. After a few minutes’ boiling in the pan, he pours the coffee through a metal sieve balanced over a clay pot.