She would never forget the sound that the trees made as they burned. She’d known that they had mouths and teeth and a tongue concealed beneath their bark, but she hadn’t heard them make any kind of noise before. Those screams of pain seemed to brand themselves upon her soul as her dear childhood friends perished in the flames. Before her eyes flashed the image of the treehouses and swings they had built for her, the picnics they had shared, the games of hide-and-seek. The long summers that the trees had kept her company and had softened the sharp edges of her loneliness. All going up in smoke.

When all but one of the trees lay stretched out smouldering silently upon the snow like blackened corpses, Beatrice threw down her bucket and ran to the final tree, scooping up handfuls of snow and pressing it directly to the branches and bark. Sweat poured down her face and the skin of her hands blistered and burned, but she refused to give up.

As the pink light of sunrise kissed the winter sky, Beatrice finally slumped back against the apple tree. She was exhausted and her hands felt as if they were on fire, but there was still life in that final tree, although its bark was scorched and its roots were withered. She had no idea whether it would actually survive. She could hardly breathe through the agony of her burns, but far worse was the loss of her friends – the only ones she had ever known, apart from James and Rosa.

She could not bear to look at them twisted and charred upon the ground, but neither could she look away. Soot and ash felt gritty on her skin. Her lungs were full of smoke. Her heart was a gaping wound. A sob burst from her chest. But as she wept for the loss, she felt tendrils of guilt wrapping themselves around her – she had already shed more tears for the trees in five minutes than she had cried for her mother in almost twenty years.

The sweat beneath her nightdress seemed to freeze against her skin and her teeth chattered uncontrollably. Despite the heat of her burns, she was so cold that it was almost impossible to stagger to her feet. She wanted nothing more than to limp back to the house and climb into the clutching embrace of that opium fog – hopefully never to come out of it again. Had all the trees perished, then she certainly would have done so. But there was that one survivor and if it was going to live, then it would need all of her attention.