I sit on the sofa and shiver as a ribbon of mist wisps in through the keyhole. I was sure Stig had felt it too – he must have noticed the awful smell and strange noise, but he wanders from the room, humming under his breath. Maybe it’s all in my head. Mum says I have a vivid imagination, just like Mormor.

Gandalf snaps at his tail. I don’t know whether he’s afraid, excited or preparing to fight – and I don’t think he knows either.

Stig reappears holding a towel. ‘Do you want to wash first? There might not be much hot water. It can take a while to heat up.’ He grins good-naturedly, but I don’t smile back. The more he makes himself at home, the more out of place I feel.

‘No, it’s fine. You go ahead.’

Stig flashes me his dimples. ‘I can save you my bathwater if you like.’

I frown, unsure whether he’s being serious. Sharing water with family is one thing, but not with a complete stranger.

Stig grins. ‘Only joking! We Norwegians do that sometimes. Joke, I mean.’

Ignoring him, I glance at the kitchen. It’s nearly three in the afternoon. The toast we had this morning has long gone. ‘I’ll start dinner, I guess.’

‘Great, I’m starving!’

‘Who said anything about making you dinner?’

Stig looks hurt, and not play-acting hurt.

‘I thought you Norwegians liked a joke?’ I say, trying to sound upbeat.

He raises his eyebrows, then turns on his heel with a grin.

Bending down, I open a cupboard and grab an onion, a few potatoes and a cabbage. Yrsa was right, the place is well stocked. I take some bread from the freezer, ready for later, then start on dinner. I’m halfway through peeling a potato when I hear the water run. The cabin has never had good soundproofing – it didn’t seem a problem before, but now the idea of using the toilet knowing I can be heard in the next room makes me cringe.

I hear singing. Badly and in Norwegian. I shake my head but can’t help smiling as Stig’s voice builds to a death-metal crescendo. I don’t know the song, but it sounds like he’s murdering it. Just when I think he’s finished, a series of wails assaults my ears. As he returns to the deep-throated chorus, I grab a knife and find myself chopping in time with the tune.

Something darts past the window. The knife slips and I gasp as it slices my flesh. Sucking my finger, I wipe away the steam from the cooking and peer outside, but there’s only fog. It’s so dense I can’t have seen anything.