Strange. It shouldn’t run out that quickly. I put the dinner in the oven, then head to the bathroom. Stig follows me as I step into the steam and turn on the bath tap. The water warms my fingers instantly. ‘Feels hot to me.’

Stig’s black socks drip water over the side of the deep wooden tub. Mum used to complain it was like showering in an oversized barrel, but I loved sitting in there as a child, pretending I was voyaging the high seas in my own little boat.

Stig holds his finger under the tap and frowns. ‘The lights were flickering too, but they seem OK now.’ His face is so close to mine I don’t know where to look. For a horrible moment I think he’s staring at my eye – but he isn’t. He’s looking at my mouth. I turn the tap off and start to walk away, somehow managing to trip over my feet in the process.

Stig grips the towel at his waist. ‘You must have a magic touch.’

If only he knew. His black shirt and slashed jeans hang on the back of the door, and I can’t help wondering what they might tell me. I think back to his coat in the woodshed. How can he feel love and sadness and at the same time be consumed by such jealousy and hate? If I run my fingers over his jeans, maybe they’ll show me a memory. I want to touch them. The realisation gives me butterflies.

I step towards his clothes, then stop. Wouldn’t it be nicer if he told me, if we just got to know each other the normal way?

Stig coughs and looks at me expectantly. It takes me a moment to realise why. I glance at the floor. ‘Sorry, right, I’ll leave you to it,’ I mutter.

As I turn to leave, I notice a blurred, misshapen face in the mirror. He must have drawn the sad hollow eyes and gaping mouth in the condensation. I think about remarking on his artwork, but when I look back the image has gone. The only monstrous face is mine.

I take my time in the shower, letting the warm water wash away the strangeness of the day, then change and towel my hair.

Stig is kneeling by the stove, feeding a log to the fire. He’s brushed his hair and applied fresh eyeliner. Instead of the usual black, he’s wearing a white shirt with ruffles down the front. There are no creases in it, so I guess he must know where Mormor keeps the iron. The boy is either incredibly nosey and likes poking around other people’s houses, or he’s been here for longer than he said. The thought brings me out in goosebumps.