CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Freya knew there were no monsters, no figures in the trees, but still she felt the need to hold George tight. He trembled in her arms, his breath soft against the curve of her neck. She ran her hands down the back of his jumper, as though stroking his story away; his words wiped clean beneath the palm of her hand. At some point she closed her eyes and they stood in silence. She became aware of other things in the absence of sight; the artificial texture of his jumper against her fingertips, the boniness of his slight frame, the warmth of her own breath, over his shoulder.
Then he did a rare thing, his own arms reaching out to hug her back. They joined behind her, his hands locking, and she felt the terror of the unknown in that grasp. A child, young to the world, he wa
