Stig watches from the door as I scrabble under the kitchen sink. I shove a bottle of paraffin oil to one side and sweep some sponges to the floor. At last I find it: a large wooden pail.

Stig inhales sharply when he sees it. ‘This thing about the tree – it’s just a story. Make-believe.’

Ignoring him, I march down the steps and around the side of the cabin.

He follows close behind. ‘Don’t you think you’re –’

‘What?’ I snap.

His long black coat flutters about his ankles like a raven that’s forgotten how to fly. He pauses, a bewildered look on his face. ‘Well, taking it too seriously.’

The pail knocks against my leg as I walk. ‘And the raven?’

He hurries after me, breathing hard. ‘Birds do that. They get caught in a gust of wind or lose their way. Just because a raven hits the window doesn’t mean Odin sent it. It doesn’t mean that you’re his descendant!’

I spin around, suddenly angry. ‘You know nothing about me, or my family!’

‘I know you miss your grandmother. And I know grief can make people crazy, but –’

‘I’m crazy? That’s what you’re saying?’ I throw the words at him, then stomp away.

‘Nei, vent! Please, stop!’

I march towards the tree. Maybe it’s all in my head, but I’m sure the raven was trying to tell me something. It wanted me to go to the tree. I shouldn’t have waited; I should have done as Mormor asked and watered it straight away.

Stig calls, ‘Why don’t we go inside? It’s freezing out here. You can do it tomorrow.’

I pause and turn with a heavy sigh. ‘I know it seems weird, but I need to do this.’

We stand for a long moment, staring at one another. Emotions play across his face, like the way the contours of a landscape go light and dark when a cloud passes overhead. His eyes are wild and destructive. Stormy sea eyes that could drag me under if I let them.

I frown, wishing he would say something that would allow me to explain, but how can I, when I don’t understand myself? Our breath hangs in the space where words should be.

Eventually he turns away, muttering in Norwegian. I watch him trudge back to the cabin, his shoulders slumped like he’s one of the figures in the drawings. He disappears inside and loneliness settles over me like a tattered cloak.

I stare at the frigid sky and sigh. I didn’t tell Stig about the books that moved by themselves or the doll twitching, because he probably wouldn’t have believed me. I know he could never fancy me, but I don’t want him to think I’m losing my mind.