Stig nods and I sigh with relief, but Yrsa isn’t finished. ‘And when Stig arrive?’

My words come out slow, unsure. ‘He came a few days ago. He was hoping to go to the funeral, but he got the timing wrong.’ I must have said the right thing as Stig relaxes slightly.

Yrsa nods, then starts a new line of questioning. ‘Why your mother not here?’

I clench my jaw. ‘Mum was meant to come but there was an emergency at work. She’s going to fly out soon.’ The truth burns like acid in my stomach. Mum robbed me of the chance to say goodbye to the person I loved most in the world.

Yrsa studies me. ‘When she come?’

‘Tomorrow, I think. It depends on flights.’

Yrsa nods but her face is blank; I’ve no idea whether she believes me. She catches Olav’s attention, then says to me, ‘We have family visiting. They go soon but no place for you tonight. If your mother come tomorrow, is OK you stay here?’

I nod and she pulls out a chair and gestures for me to sit. I lower myself cautiously, fearful of what she might say. Leaning on the table, she looks into my right eye and delivers her words slowly, each one a gift. ‘Your mormor, she wanted cupboards kept full for you. She love you very much. She knew you would come, even if your mother did not.’

Tears sting my eyes at the mention of Mormor’s name. ‘At the end, was she …?’ I swallow and try again. ‘Did she suffer? Was she ill, or …?’

Yrsa hesitates a moment and then shakes her head. ‘She died in her sleep. I found her full at peace.’ Her voice is steady but there is uncertainty in her eyes. She glances at Olav and I wait for her to say more, but she doesn’t.

‘Nei, du lyver!’ exclaims Stig.

I look over to see him talking to Olav. Judging by the surprised look on Stig’s face, I’m guessing it’s not good news. Yrsa says something to them both, her voice tense. She gives me a sideways look, then turns back and carries on talking in Norwegian.

Why do I have the feeling that she’s keeping something from me? Maybe Mormor didn’t die in peace. Maybe something terrible happened but she doesn’t want to tell me. When she’s not looking, I reach for her scarf. As soon as I touch it, uneasiness crowds my mind. The wool speaks of her affection for Mormor, but there’s something else there too – a vague and nameless fear.