‘Ow!’ I say, sucking my finger.

‘Hot!’ says Harby, smiling smugly.

I find a less-hot burned thing and pick it up. I copy Harby’s method, tapping it on a stone until it cracks, then peeling it. The inside is pale yellow and slightly soft. It smells of Christmas. It’s a nut. A roasted, toasted hazelnut. I pop it in my mouth. I chew the hazelnut until it is just a paste, letting the smoky sweetness coat my mouth.

I smile at Harby.

‘Nut!’ I say.

‘Hot!’ says Harby, in agreement. ‘Hot good?’

‘Hot good!’ I say, unpeeling another and popping it in my mouth. We smile in the firelight, eating and chewing until there are hardly any hots left. We sit together and watch the embers glow as the sky grows dark.

Suddenly Harby tenses. He reaches for his spear. He crawls to the opening, high above the wolf den, and looks down. ‘Ttsschik!’ says Harby. I’m pretty sure he’s swearing. ‘We not go yet.’

By his side now, I peer down too. All the adult wolves have gone … except for one. The wolf with the torn ear is lying near the tunnel mouth, his head is on his paws, but he’s not sleeping; I can feel his watchful eyes on me. I swallow, rubbing my clawed shoulder.

‘OOOOOOOOOOOOWOOOOOOO?’ hoots an owl. And I jump.

‘Oooooooooooooweeeeeeeeeeeeeee!’ comes the answer.

It’s like they’re two parts of the same thing. Two cherries on the same stalk. Two numbers added together to give the right answer.

Harby sighs. ‘We wait,’ he says. I can hear the itch in his voice.

‘We wait,’ I say with a nod.

I crack open another hot, and chew while I stare across the valley. A few metres in front of us is the dark of the cliff edge. We’re so high up it feels like we’re in the actual sky and watching the whole world go to sleep. With my finger I trace the route of the river as it twists, gleaming silver in the moonlight, all the way to the far far sea. The sea is so much further away than it is in my world; here there’s actually land in places that at home would just be seabed. You could probably even walk all the way to Lathrin Island! Amazing! I can still just make out the Spirit Stone, the highest point for miles around, peeking up through the canopy, silhouetted against the rising moon. ‘If we were up there we could see even further …’ I say dreamily. ‘We could see everything …’ An idea jolts through me – maybe from up there I’d be able to see the way home.

‘Harby,’ I whisper.

He’s standing quietly beside me, leaning on his spear. He’s got that lost, listening look in his eyes again, concentrating hard, his eyebrows squeezed so close together I can see a deep furrow in the middle of his bandaged forehead.

‘What is it, Harby?’ I ask. ‘Did you hear something?’ I want so much for it to be Mothga. Did he hear her cry? I listen hard. No, just the rustling of breeze through the treetops.