‘Knock knock.’ The words precede a tap at the door. A second later, Anna looks in. ‘Oh.’ She blinks at the empty bed and pushes the door wide. ‘Where’s Romy?’
With a cavernous yawn, Kira sits up, propped by the scarlet cushions. ‘I don’t know.’ Creakily stretching, she screws up her face. ‘I was getting around to wondering. It’s’—another yawn shakes her bones, and rubbing her sleep-grain eyes, she pushes her piles of blankets away—‘early. Is she not downstairs?’
‘Not that I’m aware. But then again, I wasn’t looking. I assumed she was still asleep.’ Anna rubs her forehead. ‘Maybe she went for a walk. You know what she’s like.’ She casts Kira an entreating look. ‘Would you do us a favour?’
Exasperation glimmers, but Kira nods. This isn’t the first time and won’t be the last.
Anna dips her chin in a nod. ‘If she hasn’t turned up when you’re showered and dressed, see if you can find her. We really have to pack.’ She appraises the room, strewn with underwear and vests. ‘I’ll do your packing, too, as a trade-off. You seem to need the help. All right?’
Kira’s second nod is knowing. Anna leaves with a distant sigh. Always longing for a lost mountain, a difficult and hidden cabin, always wistful when they have to leave. Always packing late, as if hoping for an unavoidable mess that means they have to stay. Her mother never changes. None of them do.
Half an hour later, Kira wanders from the room. The hallway wall is lined with relics, with wooden skis and boots. Splintered and faded, their curling roses, bows, and laces—their impractical resistance—never ceases to amaze her. She passes with a shiver. The narrow hall is chilled with winter, barely countered by the iron-set fire, burning low at the end. Wide windows line one wall, and Kira buries her arms in her cardigan sleeves. The mountain may be pretty, but flakes of white fall thick and fast. The world has turned to snow.
Kira creaks down the stairs. The restaurant is full. Tables of elderly couples, tanned around the eyes from fanatical skiing or wrapped in jumpers, with a morning beer; dark-circled parents yawning, bouncing children pulling needles from the Christmas tree. A dog the size of a buffalo pants, its frizzy coat spattered with snow. A waitress lays down a water bowl, a tray of fragrant pastries precarious on her arm. All this—all this food—and no sign of black-loving, cake-devouring Romy, scowling her way through a feast.
Although she has found her father. Standing by the bar, his voice is loud, and Kira turns her smothered laugh away. He would appear to be practising his German on the waitress.
Spying an empty table, Kira leaves him to it. He should know by now, after several days, that the reason Talie switches to English is because she doesn’t speak German.
He should, yet still he tries. Kira pulls out a chair. The misted window brushes her side, and clearing a hole to peer through, she presses her face to the glass. Snow-filled fog obscures the day. A flash of red through the pine trees heralds the tiny whistling train, whirring round the corner below the hotel. A dark bird circles the blanketed fields. A middle-aged couple reclines in the jacuzzi.
Quickly, Kira sits back. The thick, blind air and falling snow are no mask for nudity, wobbling arms, or their slow-burning embrace.
A snort sounds behind her. ‘Are they ruining the view?’ Her father kisses the top of her head. Turning, she catches his wink. ‘It’ll be me and your mum next. Quick dip before we leave.’
‘Oh, God, Dad.’ Kira covers her face with her hands.
‘You’re welcome, love. Any sign of Romy?’ His cursory tone suggests he doesn’t expect a “yes.” ‘Mum said she wasn’t with you. I suppose she could have appeared while I was talking to Talie, but…speaking of Talie.’ Easing into a chair, he taps a nail on the table. ‘My German must be getting better. She’s not switching to English quite so fast.’ He inclines his head at the raven-haired girl, passing with a tray of coffees. The strong black waft combines with croissants, with cheese and eggs and cold. ‘That’s a good sign, don’t you think?’
He lifts his eyebrows at Kira, the embodiment of his last seven words. His face shows hope. It shines with pride. It shouts hey, I’m doing well, like a child learning to write.
‘Um,’ Kira stalls. The truth, or a tactful lie? ‘The thing is, Dad, your German’s great, but Talie’s actually Turkish.’
She quickly turns her head. On the wall hangs an oil painting, of stretching ice and wolves; it’s been her go-to through every awkward moment of every awkward meal. She’s analysed every brushstroke, every subtle blend of grey. It reminds her of Turner, of Peder Balke. She’d only be brave enough to try such spectral beauty in watercolour, if she’d be brave enough to try for it at all.
‘Talie’s the owner’s daughter,’ she says, after several moments of staring. ‘I’m sorry. We meant to tell you, but…’ She drags her eyes back to him, screwing up her mouth. ‘She doesn’t speak German, Dad.’
As slowly as a penny, Mathew’s face drops. It’s a picture: a frown, a deeper frown, and then a parting of his lips. ‘You mean…’ The penny drops further. His eyes widen. ‘Daughter!’
He bats at her.
‘Hey!’ Kira jerks away. He bats again, his large hands half-hearted. ‘It’s not my fault! And I don’t know why you were trying to speak German. We’re not in Germany. Dad!’ She scrapes her chair back. A crumpled paper lands on her lap. ‘Take it back.’ She returns it. It settles daintily upon his chest. ‘You can’t blame us for you being daft. You should have taken the hint.’
Mathew brushes the paper back to the table. ‘You’—he wags a square finger—‘should have told me there were hints to be taken. Did you and Mum both…’
Kira nods, slowly, again, again.
Mathew shakes his head. ‘Cheers, daughter.’ He huffs a laugh. ‘You’re a witchy, plotting pair. Anyway.’ He holds up his watch with more ceremony than the gesture requires. ‘Time’s getting on. I take it you don’t want breakfast?’
Kira smiles. ‘I never want breakfast.’
Too late, she realises what’s coming next. ‘Then can you go out and scout for Romy?’ Her father smiles and stands. ‘Witches or not, I should help your mum pack.’
With a hand on her shoulder and a kiss on her head, Mathew McFadden departs. Kira toys with the crumpled paper. He must have been doodling: one side is mapped by sketches of a tree trunk, with four thin branches and a dash for the ground. She crumples it up again and shoves it in her jeans. It might make a nice tattoo.
What won’t be nice is her upcoming quest. Pushing up from her chair, she moves to the coat stand with all the excitement of an ox. Romy. Romy, Romy, Romy. Why is she such a distraction? Why is she such a chore?
That’s not fair. Kira’s sense of justice swoops in, armed with matching, empathetic swords. She’s not a chore. She’s…
Difficult.
That’s not fair, either. Guilt gnaws at her stomach as she heads for the door. Anna told her once that your first thought is instinct, and your second is who you are. More often than not when it comes to Romy, she winds up hoping it’s true.
Within a minute of being outside, Kira’s first thoughts slink back. The snow is growing heavier, and she can no longer see the hotel for the mist. She can barely see her feet, lurking on the end of her legs. Does she still have feet? Her boots looked so pretty in the shop back in England, but their insulation is a myth. If Romy’s the distraction, she’s the hold-your-hands-up, guilty-as-charged, perennially unprepared.
They’re as bad as each other. It should help, but it doesn’t. Kira shivers, burrows into her hood, and shuffles up to the road.
The powder is fresh and merciless. Her footprints vanish at once. Kira frowns. Looking for Romy will leave her like Sisyphus, forever pushing a rock up a hill. Snow masks everything. They don’t even know for sure that she’s out here; there may be an attic she could have slipped into, a bathroom they didn’t check…
No. Romy doesn’t hide in corners, or lurk in lonely rooms, or act the poltergeist in closets. If she�
�s anywhere, she’ll be outside. Free. Kira snorts. Her free, wild sister, off on a jaunt. I’m going on an adventure!
The humour wilts and withers and dies. Her sister, off on a jaunt, again, and Kira, bringing her back. Again.
It’s just like the first time. Kira’s face contorts. If anyone else was around, she’d probably resemble a dischuffed frog. The first time, she tramped through the ocean’s mist, panicked as to what was happening; now, she knows what’s happening, but she’d really rather not. This feeling normal is not okay.
She pulls another face, uglier than before. The first time, there’d been a fight; it hadn’t seemed much in the moment, the dog-tired theme of doctors or no doctors, but it somehow became the last straw. Romy took a cocktail of pills from the bathroom, swiped a bottle of wine, and left.
She wasn’t hard to find. She’d gone to the beach. Kira came across her by her favourite rock pool, the water bobbing with pills and rain. Romy herself was drunk and asleep.
Kira’s relief hadn’t lasted. Romy became bolder, cunning, taking every outing as a challenge. She slipped away to less obvious places, mixed drinks, upped her drugs. Recently, though, she’s been better.
Or not.
‘“She was a wanderess.”’ Kira digs her tingling hands in her pockets. ‘She is a wanderess. Bonjour.’ She nods to a group marching fast toward the train hut. Their replies fly back in a muddle, and with a farmyard of clattering gear in their arms, they lug their skis over the tracks toward the chuntering train. It emits an indignant whistle. Kira huffs. The same family have done the same at least three times this week, running and nearly getting crushed. Their disorganized luck is a puzzle.
After several hundred metres of deserted, cloying mist, the puzzle has lost its appeal. Colder than bones and sick of her task, it’s impossible not to brood. The fog makes it dark, and the winter makes it miserable. The chalets along the roadside are shadows under trees. Kira frowns at the toes of her boots. Oh, Romy. She doesn’t even like the cold. She doesn’t like the heat much, either, but summer’s a myth back home in Devon.
Come to think of it, so is winter. If Romy’s out in this, she won’t be prepared. She’ll have treated it like she would in England, where all there is for four straight months is rain and fog and moaning.
Shutting her eyes, just briefly, Kira plunges the lurking worry into a nice ice-water bath. Won’t she be prepared? She hates the cold, so she might have wrapped up. Maybe she has just gone for a walk, but chose not to tell anyone. She’s probably fine. If the buvette’s open, she might have just stopped in there for a while.
Either way, though, she hates herself. She could be sat in the snow in Motalles, feeling it freeze her butt. She could be making snowballs, chucking them at tourists until her fingers numb. If the winter freezes her, she won’t care. It’ll be a savage win.
A low hum breaks the silence, this well of speculation. Kira looks up. Crawling toward her like a steampunk turtle, a snowplough’s headlights shine like ghosts. Vaguely, Kira steps aside. Cutting two thin paths through the mist, the snowplough rumbles past. Was Romy’s coat missing from the coat stand? Were her boots on the rack? She should have checked. Her parents must have, surely, or they wouldn’t have sent her on a one-girl mission.
Kira sighs. She’s a long way down the road already, alone in this damp cocoon that both steals and stifles her breath. She might as well carry on. If Romy is out here, she may well need her help.
Kira clings to this with frozen hands. The snowplough illuminated the village, but now the world folds in. The mist is growing denser, syrupy and tangible, tightening its dead-zone hold. She shivers. On sunny days, this road gleams, the sky an unreal blue. The chalets are rustic. The trees are a painting from a copy of Heidi, timeworn and grand. Mathew whistles “Winter Wonderland,” and it’s repetitive, but true.
Kira shivers again. ‘Just to the forest,’ she murmurs. At least she’s not deaf, which was largely the point…but she hadn’t realised how silent—how deadened by the mist and snow—the mountain had become.
‘I’m only going to the forest,’ she whispers. This journey will end, and soon. They can’t expect her to go any farther. Even if it wasn’t creepy, she’s not her sister’s keeper.
Another shiver. Kira brings her hands to her mouth and blows. It warms her freezing lips, if not her fingertips. She’s not her sister’s keeper. As much as she wants Romy back—and safe—this time, it’s just too much. Kira blows on her hands again, wiggling her fingers. The queen of preparation forgot to bring gloves, but at least she brought resolve. Going to the forest is far enough. She’ll die of cold. She’ll lose her mind.
As if she hasn’t already. She scowls, her decisiveness dissolving into derision. She’s giving herself a silent pep talk and squaring up to the weather. There doesn’t appear to be much mind left to—
A magpie shoots from an overhanging tree.
‘Jesus!’ Kira scurries to the side. Her thoughts take flight, scattering like the snow-sprayed leaves it sends whipping across the road. ‘God. Okay. It’s fine.’
Cawing, the bird melts into the mist. It’s a magpie; a magpie. It’s fine.
Breathing through her jangled nerves, she leaves the tunnel of trees. Around a bend, and the mountains open into a spread of fields. Gentle. Fine. Inhaling the woodsmoke from rickety chimneys, she longs for the hotel fires. At least she’d be neither cold nor blind. The mist parts for a signpost warning of deer, two children sledging in the field by the car park, and not a great deal else. This tiny part of Switzerland is by far the most remote place she’s ever been. How does the village survive whole winters here, on such a faraway, isolated mountain? Do they hibernate? Do they—
Looming out of nowhere, two shadows blunder from the mist and almost mow her down.
‘Sorry.’ A tangle of brown hair above a ski jacket, the young man lifts a hand. His breath is a wheeze, his arm around a shivering girl with buckled knees. ‘Didn’t see you. I need to get her inside somewhere. She’s probably—’
Kira’s insides freeze to blue, blue ice. ‘Romy!’
She lunges forward. Clad in pyjamas and covered in snow, her sister sways in place. ‘Romy? What happened? Oh my God.’ She wrenches Romy toward her. The man flinches back. ‘Romy? What’s wrong?’
‘I found her.’ Palms up, the young man jumps in. ‘I was in the forest. Collecting wood. You can see how much we need fires…’
Kira ignores him. Blowing on Romy’s fingers, she switches, rubbing her mottled cheeks. Her fingertips are bruised, both bony hands a mix of purple, blue, white…Kira switches back to them. They’re cold, but not frostbitten. Right? Isn’t frostbite black?
‘Um.’ The man rubs the side of his head with a thick, padded glove. ‘I—ah. She was under a tree. I didn’t know if she was asleep, unconscious, whatever, but I woke her up and got her moving.’ He spreads his hands. His voice is Scottish. ‘I didn’t hurt her.’ His hands drop when she doesn’t look up. ‘I didn’t. Is she your sister? You really need to get her inside. She’s cold as hell, and she’s not wearing shoes.’
‘She’s not wearing shoes?’ Holding Romy up—oh, God, oh, God—Kira peers down at her feet. She isn’t wearing shoes. Her feet are blue. Her legs are as mottled as her face. How is she still walking? How is she still alive?
‘The hotel.’ Wrestling to rest Romy against her, Kira grunts and tries to keep calm. Romy’s head lolls. Her temple knocks Kira’s jaw. A wash of hopelessness consumes her, but no. She has to handle this. ‘Um.’ Her hood falls back, spilling snow across her skin, and she shivers. ‘We’re staying at the…the…’ Her throat constricts. Not calm. Not calm. She brushes hair from her sister’s eyes, clotted and matted with snow. ‘The hotel. We need to…’ Her words disappear. She can hardly breathe. This is the most destructive Romy’s ever been. ‘Romy?’ she manages hoarsely. ‘What happened? Can you hear me?’
Almost imperceptibly, Romy nods.
Relief rushes in, quashed at once by panic. She’s consc
ious. She’s frozen. She’s alive. She’s in pyjamas. She’s back, but she’s not okay. Oh, God, Romy, why?
With a heaving breath, Romy rasps, and Kira’s flying mind stalls. Purpled with cold, her lips painfully cracked, Romy opens her eyes. ‘Anneliese.’
She collapses.
‘Romy!’ Kira stumbles under her weight. Her own knees buckle as she fights to keep her balance. Her feet skid on the snow-covered ice, legs staggering, tumbling—
‘I’ve got you.’ Lurching forward, the young man grunts, heaving them toward him. ‘It’s okay. Ow.’ His shoulder clicks, loud and popping. With another grunt and a grimace, he yanks them upright. Kira’s head reels. She staggers. ‘She needs to get inside. Unconsciousness is the enemy. Come on.’
Bundling Romy under his arm, he gestures for Kira to walk. Arms out, she teeters. ‘Did you hear me?’ His urging voice pitches. ‘Let’s go.’
Shock clatters round her mind like a dodgem. Grounding herself on the ice, Kira kicks her body into action. ‘Sorry.’
‘I don’t mean to be impatient.’ The young man cuts her a glance. Kira loops an arm around Romy’s waist, and in a three-legged race, they walk. ‘You’re staying at the hotel?’
Kira grits her teeth with effort. ‘Mmhmm.’
‘Then we need to hurry back there.’ He appraises her. ‘I’m Callum.’
Kira gives him a smile to dissuade him from speech. This is a horrible time for small talk. Romy…
Her shock ricochets into guilt, and her heart skips in time. To think she’d been bemoaning Romy. To think she’d been calling her a chore, a distraction. Her temples thud. Her stomach thumps. The road ahead is invisible, masked by sheets of snow. To think she was going to turn back.
‘Hold her up.’ Kira stops. Eyes closed, Romy murmurs, slumping into Callum. Unzipping her coat, Kira shrugs it off. Right now, it’s the least she can do.
The cold hits her like a thousand stinging slaps. Callum stares. ‘What in God’s name are you doing?’ He looks between her and the mist, her and the snow, her and the black-limbed trees, as if checking it’s still winter. ‘It’s minus thirteen. You’ll freeze.’
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