The only sound is the wind and the muffled crunch of our footsteps. Something moves to my left. I turn to the tree and gasp. Dozens of little children hang from its branches. I scream and Stig stops. ‘What is it?’ he calls.

Fear closes my throat. It’s not children hanging from the tree, just their empty coats. I focus and realise I’m wrong. The tree is covered with scraps of material, fluttering on the breeze. It reminds me of the nightmare I had about Mormor – snatching at a piece of cloth on the tree. Sadness stabs at my heart. I blink and the branches are bare.

Stig searches my face. ‘You OK?’

I take a deep breath and wave my hand. ‘I’m fine. Just keep going!’ My legs ache from the weight of the snowshoes and taking such wide steps, but I don’t want to rest. The sooner we get to Olav and Yrsa’s, the better.

At the edge of the fir trees, Stig stops and waits for directions. I peer into the dark forest, hoping I can find the way. Luckily I soon spot the start of the path.

‘There.’ I point. ‘We need to go for about a mile, I reckon.’

Gandalf growls and sniffs at the ground and Stig touches my arm in warning. We freeze and look at one another. Once we enter the forest, it will be harder to move quickly. If there is a wolf, we won’t stand a chance. We hold our breath and listen. High above us, the tops of the trees sway wildly in the wind, making a constant rushing sound. The full moon is growing bright in the darkening sky. We need to keep moving.

Pushing away a heavy spruce branch, I step into the forest. Sheltered from the cry of the wind, it’s eerily quiet: just the crunch of twigs beneath our feet, the swish of fir, and the occasional whhump-whhump of snow sliding from branches.

Touching the tree trunks with my gloved hands, I lead the way, with Stig and Gandalf close behind. The lower parts of the trees are covered with hundreds of tiny thin branches, which add to the gloom. Dead and spiky, they reach out like skeletal fingers, threatening to slash at our faces. The torch is heavy in my pocket and it’s a comfort to know it’s there, but I don’t use it. Better to let my sight adjust to the moonlight. After ten minutes or so, Gandalf stops and growls at a patch of undergrowth. My skin prickles. I stare in every direction. Nothing but fir trees and the watching eyes of a raven.

By the time we emerge from the forest, the moon is high in the sky and half hidden by cloud. Olav and Yrsa’s place sits on a hill in the distance, its lights twinkling. My heart leaps with joy.