Catherine bit her lip. The GP had warned them that the sudden onset of Honor’s night terrors could be down to the stress or worry of starting secondary school. He’d advised them not to interact or try to wake her, unless she was in danger of hurting herself. ‘It’s likely she won’t recognize you and will become more agitated,’ he’d explained. But maternal instinct kicked in. She wanted to rescue Honor from the darkest reaches of herself.

Honor began to whisper. Catherine shook her gently. Spoke her name. But the whispering continued, like an incantation. She sat on the carpet next to her daughter to wait it out.

Honor’s sentences were indistinct, rolling from one to the other, a slurry of vowels and consonants. Every now and then, Catherine recognized a word, but the meaning was lost inside the confusion of sounds. She shivered, her pyjamas scant protection against the freezing temperature.

Her daughter’s back was pressed against the spines of her books, as if disappearing into the pages of childhood comfort might save her from her nightmares, and her arms were outstretched, a shield to ward off the unseen. The girl flinched, knocking Aesop’s Fables from the shelf, tipping over a potted cactus and breaking one of the Murano glass fish she’d lovingly collected since her father had brought her first one back from a work trip to Italy.

The thud of the falling book seemed to have an effect on Honor. Her murmurings slowed into song and Catherine picked out the rhythm of a long-forgotten favourite. The hairs on her arm lifted in response. Honor’s voice was the scratch of teeth against glass.

‘Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home,

Your house is on fire, your children will burn,

All but one, that lies under a stone,

Fly thee home, ladybird, ’ere she be gone.’

The girl smiled vacantly at her mother and silence stretched between them, thin as ice.

Somewhere in the cottage, a toilet flushed. Edward was awake. And as quickly as it started, Honor relaxed into herself again. Dimples and apple-cheeks. Blinking. Sleepy-eyed.

She allowed Catherine to guide her back into bed and tuck the covers around her. She reached for her giraffe, and she was twelve again. Within seconds, her eyes were closed and she was breathing evenly. Catherine’s precious girl. Her mother kissed her forehead and stroked her fringe. For a minute, she watched her sleep.

Through a gap in the curtains, the moon was high and bright. Catherine held back the fabric and looked into the garden below. Ice crystals glinted in the wash of light. The world was still again. A winter tableau.

Catherine gathered up the pieces of broken glass and put them on the windowsill, out of harm’s way. She used her fingers to sweep dirt from the fallen cactus into her palm.

Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home. Your house is on fire, your children will burn.