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Johan pokes down into the glass with a finger. Ragna seizes
the glass, glares at the contents, turns slowly towards me,
disbelievingly, her mouth open.
‘Oh, my God. You burned the application. You’ve bloody
well gone and burned the whole of my application to the
nursing home!’
I’m about to protest, but immediately realize that it’s
almost impossible to come up with a simple and plausible
explanation that Ragna might believe. I twist the duvet
around me, start to babble about trivialities to give myself
time to concoct a story both of them will accept. But a
glance in Ragna’s direction tells me that she sees my
babbling as a sign of lies and evasion. She yawns loudly and
rolls her eyes, is pale and clearly in a state of shock, grabs
the collar of my nightdress with both hands, twists it round
hard, presses me down into the bed.
My incoherent babbling stops. I am shocked, me too; quite
simply, I cannot think of anything that will explain the
pitch-black contents of the glass. A wave of panic rises in
my throat. I realize that I am hoist by my own petard, that
my future hangs on an impossible choice between two
explanations: burning the application or casting a spell on
Johan.
I try to move so I can breathe, catch Ragna’s gaze, but her
hands respond by twisting my collar even tighter. My