Trying not to think about it, I make my way back to the kitchen and am startled when the lighthouse comes on. I should be used to the ghastly red glow, but there’s something jarring about the way it floods through the windows like a warning. Tom has lit some lamps and is sitting at the table with his back to the room, his nose in a book. I was hoping he’d have cleared up, but the floor is a minefield of pots and pans and the cupboard doors remain defiantly open. I don’t know how he can bear to sit there with them gaping at him.

The wind howls outside, the rain pounding on the windows like it’s trying to get in, and I shiver as I close the cupboards and salvage bakeware from the floor. I try not to glance behind me – if I start looking over my shoulder I won’t be able to stop.

Grabbing a cloth, I set to work wiping the counter. Somehow we have to pretend that everything’s normal. Eat dinner, do the dishes, go to bed. Don’t look at the shadows. If we can just get through the night, then I can train with the witches again in the morning. Whatever it takes, I’ll do it, even if it means letting Moronoe take control of me. I have to, or … I fight back tears, my fingers gripping the cloth so tight that water pools everywhere.

I can’t fall apart. I won’t.

I throw the smashed eggshells in the bin then pick up the bag of flour lying on its side, cursing as more spills out. The floor will just have to stay a mess. I don’t know where the mop is kept and I can’t see well enough to do a good job in the dim light anyway.

Tom hasn’t lifted his head from his book once.

‘How’s dinner looking?’ I ask.

He glances up and rubs the back of his neck.

‘Dinner – how’s it doing?’

He rushes to the oven and kneels down, opening the door a crack and coughing on a face full of smoke. As he lifts out the pan, something that looks like egg and cheese slides to the far side. ‘Do you know if that’s meant to happen?’ he asks.

‘Maybe you need to flip it over.’

‘Oh, it’s kind of burnt on the bottom already. I guess there’s always pudding.’

My stomach drops. ‘There’s pudding?’

‘I’ve made a cake. The recipe called for glacé cherries, but I couldn’t find any so I improvised.’

My gaze tracks over the used mixing bowl on the counter to the half-empty packets surrounding it: flour, baking powder, sugar, and a jar of olives stuffed with red pimentos.

‘Can’t wait.’