Suddenly I remember. That’s why I fell! I was in the garden and I heard Mum and Mormor arguing. I climbed the tree because I wanted to eavesdrop, when a face pushed its way out of the bark. The same face I saw just now. That’s what made me lose my grip and fall. Is the face one of them? Can the Norns be real?

Stig kneels by my feet and gently tugs at my boots, his eyes full of concern. The room dips and sways, making me dizzy.

‘I’m going to get you a blanket. While I’m gone, take your trousers off.’

I tug at my wet jeans but they’re superglued to my legs. Panting with exertion, I eventually manage to wriggle free. Stig reappears holding a colourful crocheted blanket and a pile of my clothes. He glances at my bare legs and swallows, a pained look on his face. He places the sweatshirt and bottoms on the sofa. ‘Here, put these on. I’ll make you a hot drink.’

I look at my feeble white thighs, hating the paleness of my skin. Stig hands me the blanket and I cover myself with it. He hesitates, as if he doesn’t want to leave but doesn’t know what to say. Eventually he pulls his gaze away and goes to the kitchen.

Once his back is turned, I peel off my damp top. The thought of him seeing me in my underwear makes me shiver. Part of me wants him to see, wants him to notice my body. But then I glance down at my dingy bra. Everything about me is ugly.

I pull on the dry clothes, then wrap the blanket around my shoulders and reach my hands towards the fire. The heat slowly thaws my flesh, making my fingers throb and leaving a meltwater of thoughts pooled in my brain. All those nights I lay awake, trying to understand why clothes speak to me. I thought that if I could just talk to Mormor, then maybe I would understand. Now that I know the truth I feel trapped. I want to do as Mormor asks, but I hate the thought of going near the tree – and whatever weird entity is inside it – again.

Gandalf rests his chin on my knee and looks at me with sad, knowing eyes. ‘You knew it was a bad idea, didn’t you?’ I whisper. He twitches an eyebrow. That damned chest. I should have nailed it shut and caught the first flight back to London. I didn’t ask for this – any of it. Time is running out – what the hell is that supposed to mean?

Stig appears and places a steaming cup of coffee in my hands. I sip it and brandy burns the back of my throat, making me cough. He adjusts the blanket around my shoulders.

‘Better now?’