I feared your mother would never accept the truth, so I took you out to the tree many times, hoping you were ready to see them. Perhaps I should have told you sooner, but I promised your mother I would not – and I couldn’t risk her never bringing you to the island again. I made the mistake of pushing her too hard, I see that now. I am so sorry for what is to come. I hope you can forgive me.

Mormor had the same ability as me, and so does Mum? My pulse races with my thoughts. Who or what are the Norns? I haven’t seen them! Mormor took me out to the tree the day before the accident, but I didn’t hear anything.

I read her words for the third time. Of course Mormor hid the letter in the wardrobe, knowing I would be drawn to touch her clothes. The moving spinning wheel and the wool dropping to the floor, do they mean her ghost is with me now? I look around and shiver. I can’t help feeling that there’s something in the room, watching me.

I look back at the letter. Part of me wants to forget I ever found it. Mormor makes it sound so important, but the idea of going near the tree fills me with dread. I study her shaky handwriting. If Mormor wrote it on her deathbed, maybe she wasn’t in her right mind.

I move towards the chest and Gandalf tilts his head, his brown eyes full of concern. He barks and twitches a grey eyebrow, and I stroke his ears. ‘It’s what I came here for,’ I say. Sitting on my knees, I look inside. Even if it means hardship and danger, I haven’t come this far to close the lid.

9

There are dozens of books inside: ancient dusty tomes bound in dark brown leather, shiny hardback notebooks and rolls of mouldy-smelling paper – not to mention piles of canvas bags and folded linen. I don’t know where to begin.

The light flickers as I randomly select a notebook. Inside is tiny black handwriting, like an ant dipped in ink has crawled across its pages. I turn to the front: on the first page is written ‘Karina, 27 februar, 1918’. Beneath it is a black and white image of the same severe-looking woman I saw in the photo on the shelf. My great-grandmother. Her long wavy hair is parted in the centre and there are dark circles under her eyes. I search the pages, hungry for clues, but there are no more photos, and the Norwegian words mean nothing to me.

Placing the book down, I reach for a roll of paper. I slide off the red velvet ribbon, and the paper curls up on itself, not wanting to share its secrets. Written at the top is ‘Solveig, 6 oktober, 1886’. Different handwriting, this time written in verse – again in a language I don’t understand.