The scratching starts as I move on leaden feet towards the fake Aga. Scratch, scratch, scratch. It comes from the walls, the ceiling, underneath the floorboards. It’s inside me and all around me. Slowly, I turn the knobs at the front of the range, the hissing of gas filling my ears, yet still not drowning out the sound of the claws scratching, scratching around me. The air seems to thicken, time slowing down even further, and I think for a moment I can see the gas escaping, lying thickly in the air above my head. Sparkly threads wisping in the breeze from the open door behind me, as I move silently towards the staircase. My heart is hammering in my chest, but I can barely hear it over the roaring in my ears. I feel the creak of the tread of the stairs beneath my feet rather than hear it, and as I reach the landing I stand in a puddle of moonlight. Cold, so cold that goosebumps rise on my arms and the balls of my bare feet ache. I pull the pilled sleeves of my linen shirt over my hands and pause, listening. Silence. Just faint breaths coming from the darkened room ahead of me. I trail my hands over the warm wood of the banister, stopping to look out of the landing window, as I have done for so many nights previously. The fox, my old friend, steps out of the shadows of the trees and stops, sniffing the air. He raises his face to the window, his eyes meeting mine. His head dips in a quick nod, as if acknowledging what I am doing and giving his blessing. I watch him go on his way, waiting until his tail rounds the pond and he disappears from sight, before I move forward to the doorframe, knowing I won’t see him again, he won’t be back. I clutch it tightly, my vision suddenly blurry and when I blink, the room is unfamiliar. Shadows dance across the wall in the thin light of the moon that trickles in from the landing and my hand goes to the light switch before I drop it. I blink again, nausea rising hard and fast in my stomach and saliva floods my mouth. The shadows on the walls become clear – the fronds of seaweed, the mermaid perched atop a dark rock, tiny fish that are just dark smudges on the wall now. I step onto the bare floorboards as the scratching starts up again, over the head of the bed this time, and I see her, the dark figure standing over the bed where Mina sleeps. I move closer, seeing the baby’s fists appear over the edge of the Moses basket, tiny and plump. There is an urge to pick him up, bring him close to my chest and inhale him one last time but I don’t. I step over the toys on the floor, moving closer to the bed. Mina is asleep on her back, her breath whistling in and out in light snores, and my eyes drop to the end of the bed. To the blanket that Rav has laid out over her feet. Blue, knitted, with a trailing edge where the satin has become unravelled. To the empty cup lying on its side, next to the bed, discarded by Rav after putting Mina to bed. She stands there, Agnes Gowdie, dark and shadowy, a pillow clutched in her hands. She turns to look at me, her eyes strangely blank, her mouth twisting in that familiar grin as she raises the pillow and brings it down, slowly over Mina’s face as a sob erupts from my chest. I am too late. I reach for her, my hands scrabbling for the pillow to seize it from her. Somewhere, far away, a door slams.