Yrsa huffs and glances behind me. ‘Mora di?’ I shake my head and she tries again. ‘Mora di – your mother? She is with you, yes?’

Mora di, that’s what Olav kept saying when he dropped me off last night. Of course, when he saw the light on he was asking about Mum, presuming she was in the cabin. He was hardly going to guess Goldilocks the Goth had taken up residence.

‘No, Mum isn’t here.’ I keep the door half closed. Even from here I can sense Stig’s panic. If there was a back door, I’m sure he would have bolted by now.

Yrsa mutters something in Norwegian and Olav shrinks back. She pulls herself up to her full impressive height. ‘We come in.’ It’s not a request.

I stand to one side, but not fast enough. As Yrsa pushes past me, a feeling of great strength and pride spreads through my chest. Sheepskin doesn’t offer many impressions – it’s like a musical instrument that only plays one note, but that note is loud and true. It speaks of a person’s core essence, and Yrsa resonates warrior with every fibre of her being.

Gandalf bounds over with an excited bark and Olav drops to one knee. I don’t know who gives the other more kisses. Yrsa pats the dog’s head affectionately. ‘You make us worried! Of course you come here, naughty runaway!’

The door of the bathroom gives a tiny squeak and Yrsa straightens. ‘Who is there?’ She takes a step forward and Stig cautiously enters the room.

Yrsa’s eyebrows jump in surprise. ‘Who are you?’ She looks him up and down, taking in his strange clothes and woodland hair accessories.

I speak without thinking. ‘A friend of the family,’ then stare at the floor, annoyed with myself for not just telling her the truth.

Gandalf trots around the sofa and sits obediently at Stig’s feet. Boy and dog plead at me with their eyes and I give a tiny shake of my head. I feel bad that Stig ended up sleeping in the woodshed, but even so, I don’t like lying for him.

Stig steps forward and holds out his hand. ‘Jeg heter Stig.’ He approaches Yrsa confidently, like he’s meant to be here. She asks him several questions in Norwegian and nods as he answers. Seemingly satisfied, she strides into the kitchen and takes off her scarf and gloves and puts them on the table, then opens a cupboard. She mutters and opens another. Stig raises an eyebrow and I shrug in reply. I’ve no idea what she’s doing, and I’m not about to ask.

A cupboard door bangs shut, revealing Yrsa’s fearsome face. ‘How old is Stig?’

Stig starts to answer but Yrsa raises a hand to silence him. I glance at him and swallow, trying to guess his age. ‘Erm, seventeen.’