He smiles shyly. ‘Sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you this.’

A waterfall of words rushes through my head. I wrote to Mormor about my ability, but that’s not the same as having someone to actually talk to about it. My chest flushes with excitement. I glance at Stig, wondering how much I dare to tell him.

‘I think clothes can hold memories,’ I venture.

Stig nods. ‘You may be right. I like clothes with missing buttons and stray threads. It means they have a story to tell. The same with people.’

I shift my weight on the arm of the sofa. ‘You like people with missing buttons?’

Stig laughs. ‘No. I mean that people who aren’t perfect are always the most interesting.’ I remember the first time he saw me. Stig looked terrified, but not because of my eye. He hasn’t looked strangely at it or asked me about it once.

He pulls his phone from his pocket. ‘Look at this for crazy clothes.’ I take it and see goths in amazing outfits: a guy in a top hat with long feathers trailing down the back and a woman with lots of tattoos in a tight corset. I stop when I come to a girl with short black hair, balanced on a trapeze wire, and blowing a kiss to the camera. Stig’s acrobatic ex, I presume. She’s wearing bright red lipstick and is stunning. I hand back the phone. Maybe he was trying to make me feel better, but I feel worse. There’s no point pretending. Someone like Stig is never going to want to keep a photo of me – the circus freak – on his phone.

A distant howl sends a shiver down my spine. I glance at Stig and he looks back at me, his face pale. A loud bang makes us both jump.

Gandalf leaps from his bed and barks at the door, while Stig rushes to the window and pulls open the curtain. ‘Sounded like a gunshot.’ He cranes his neck. ‘Not far away.’

I go over, but there’s nothing to see – only darkness. ‘It came from near the forest. That’s where Yrsa and Olav live. Maybe it was Olav, shooting the wolf.’

Stig returns to the sofa and flops down, seemingly relieved. ‘There was only one shot, so he must have got it.’ I listen for a howl or a second gunshot, but the night returns to silence. I wish I shared Stig’s optimism. Maybe Olav got whatever’s out there – or maybe he missed and it got him. There’s no way to know.

I stand for a few moments longer, then reach for an oil lamp on the dresser and take down a box of matches. ‘Goodnight,’ I say, and head to Mormor’s room.

‘God natt,’ Stig calls. ‘Sleep well.’