I take off my wet coat and hang it on the back of a chair, and it immediately gets to work forming a puddle on the slate tiles.

‘You’re soaked,’ he informs me.

I sneeze and he rushes over. ‘Come and stand by the stove and warm up.’

‘It’s OK. I need to get some dry clothes. I’ll be fine once I’ve had a shower.’

‘No. You stay here, I’ll get them.’ He bundles me over to the oven then dashes upstairs and reappears a few minutes later with an armful of clothes and towels.

‘Thanks.’ I take them and glance at the smoke billowing behind him. ‘You might want to check on …’

‘Not my frittata as well!’

He jumps into action, grabbing a pair of oven gloves and clapping them together furiously, whether to dissipate the smoke or intimidate the ancient appliance into obedience, I’m not sure. While he’s remonstrating with the oven, I look through the pile of clothes and notice a black stain on one of the towels. He must have picked it up from the bedroom floor where I threw it last night. Not wanting to touch it, I drop it onto a chair and head out.

A cold draught swirls around my legs as I walk along the gloomy hallway. The door at the end is ajar, the boards we ripped off still where we left them, reminding me of our desperate dash to the lighthouse. I don’t like seeing the mess of wood and nails everywhere – with the state of the kitchen, it feels as if the house is falling apart, and I decide to clear them up as soon as I get the chance.

Stepping into the bathroom, I wish I’d brought an oil lamp with me. There’s only one window and it’s already getting dark outside. Deciding to risk it, I use the toilet then shower as quickly as I can. Once I’m dressed, I go to the sink and wipe the condensation from the mirror. Apart from appearing tired, I look how I always do. I tell myself there’s only one soul inside me, but I know she’s there – Moronoe. I may not be able to see her, but I can sense her stronger than ever, curled up tight, waiting.