already morning. Proper morning, with the sun already up and the clock buzzing away. She taps the buzzer down and jumps out of bed. Mumma’s not in her own bed. She’s not in the playroom. Gaia heads to the kitchen and pulls a chair to the window by the sink. There’s a strange mist rolling over the fjord. It looks like ghosts. And somehow, deep in her mind, she knows something is very wrong.
She’s upset and frantic and tearful and has no idea why, but she feels like she’s trapped in a huge spiderweb and has to break free of a thousand silken threads that bind her. She goes back to her bedroom for Louis and hugs him tight, then sobs and sobs because it’s been ages since she saw Mumma, and she wants her back right now.
“Look,” Louis says.
She looks down at the floor.
“What do you think it is?” she asks Louis.
She gets out of bed and looks at the markings. Two muddy curves, like two Cs facing each other, one a normal C and the other a back-to-front C.
“They’re hoofprints,” Louis tells her. Gaia stares at him, then inspects the hoofprints again. There are more of them in the room leading all the way to the door. She still feels tearful, but now she also feels curious. She remembers the story her mumma told her about the elk coming in the house.
Maybe it’s a sign.
The hoofprints continue, big muddy clods all the way down to the kitchen.
“Come on!” she tells Louis as she pulls open the kitchen door.
“You should get a coat,” he tells her, but she hasn’t got time for that. Mumma wants her to follow her and she hasn’t a minute to lose.
* * *
—
Sophie! Sophie! Wake up!”
I sat upright, mumbling about beetles, to find Maren stooped over me, her hair askew and her cardi inside out.
“What time is it?” I asked, checking my watch.
“Gaia’s not in her bed,” Maren said breathlessly. She’d obviously been running. She leaned on my bed frame, panting. The meaning of her words slowly sank into my brain.
“What do you mean she’s not in bed?” I asked. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know . . .”
“Have you checked the basement?”
“She’s not in the house. The kitchen door was open . . .”
I shot out of bed as if the mattress had suddenly filled with hot coals.
“Gaia!” I shouted. “Gaia! Come on, now! Where are you?”
Maren did the same. Tom staggered down the stairs, his face blanched. “What’s going on?”
“Gaia’s not in her room,” Maren repeated. “I saw the kitchen door was open so I . . .”
Tom didn’t let her finish. He bolted to Gaia’s room, shouting her name, while Maren and I searched the rest of the house, just in case. It was snowing outside. I checked the playroom and found everything in place. Gaia’s paints and crayons were still in the drawer, her sketchpad unopened.
Maren paused at the door to the basement, throwing me a look.
“Check it,” I said, and she pulled back the lock and tugged the door open, flicking on the light before heading down.
“Any sign?” I called after her.
A few seconds later, an answer: “She’s not here.”
Tom raced outside into the snow. I heard him swear and ran after him. He glanced up at me. “She’s been outside.”
By his feet, another set of tracks. Small, Gaia-sized footprints, leading away from the house. She wasn’t wearing any shoes.
Tom raced off, calling and calling for her. I grabbed my coat and boots and followed suit, tears streaming down my face.
She was gone, nowhere to be seen, and for every second that she spent outside the house, her life was in danger.
And it was entirely my fault.
27
aurelia’s diary
Last night was the worst yet. My chest, stomach, and arms are in agony today. I know the bruising will be bad. He apologized over and over and pleaded with me not to leave. “Everything I do is for you,” he said. “The house is all for you!” He said he was just under a lot of stress and that he sometimes gets jealous about the new baby. I can understand that. What I don’t understand is how rage apparently gets the better of him and yet he manages not to touch my face. All the bruising is covered by clothing. He won’t risk anyone asking questions. And yet, you just have to look into my eyes to see the sadness there. What this is doing to me.