‘Good, they’re home!’ shouts Stig. We grin at one another and walk a little faster. We’ll have some explaining to do when we get there, but I don’t mind. My nose and toes are numb; I just want to get out of the cold.

Gandalf barks and charges off, tugging the lead from Stig’s hand. I stomp after him, while Stig huffs and flaps his arms in annoyance. Gandalf zigzags through the snow, back the way we came. Whatever scent he’s picked up, he’s not letting it go. ‘Not now, Gandalf! Come back!’ Olav and Yrsa’s house is only fifteen minutes away, less if we hurry.

A dark shape stalks out from the shadows of the trees and my body stiffens. It’s just Gandalf. I breathe a sigh of relief and chase clumsily after him. He’s got something in his mouth: a pale padded glove. I take it from him and an image of Mormor flashes into my mind, clutching Yrsa’s gloved hand and begging her to water the tree. Tears ache in my throat as I remember the anguish she felt. The material starts to show me something else. Something terrible … slashing black claws and …

Stig takes the glove from me and the connection is lost.

‘What’s that?’ He turns it over to reveal a stain on the cuff.

Gandalf paws and whimpers at something a little way off. Stig gives me an anxious glance, then pulls the tea towel from his pocket. It falls to the ground and the blade of the knife gleams. Holding it out, he walks forward. I follow, my heart pounding. Gandalf is standing over a dark shape on the ground. It looks like a person, but it can’t be.

‘Faen!’ Stig grabs me and tries to hold my head against his shoulder, but I pull away. Olav’s grey beard is frozen, his mouth open. His arms lie stiffly over his body, holding a gun. My gut clenches. I think I’m going to be sick.

Stig goes closer and mutters in Norwegian, then whispers, ‘His neck has been slashed.’ I turn to look away, a taste of bile in my mouth, and see another shape in the snow. Just ten paces to my right. My heart drops to my stomach. Please, no. It can’t be.

Stig grabs my hand and squeezes tight. We walk over together. Yrsa’s huge sheepskin coat is shrouded with frost, her frozen face covered in blood. A flap of skin hangs loosely from her cheek. I cover my mouth with my hand. The sleeves of her coat have been torn to shreds, the material drenched in blood. Beneath her, the snow is stained dark.

A sob rises in my throat. ‘Stig, what do we do?’

He stares blankly, then gestures to the house. ‘Olav has a car. Come on, it’s not far!’

Wiping away tears, I clamber after him.