The door was pushed open, letting in a blast of freezing air and two young girls, who were as gaudy and brightly coloured as exotic birds. ‘Come in, come in.' He struggled to his feet, stiff and aching. He came to with a start, knowing he'd been in the middle of a nightmare, but not sure of the details. He'd have heard their laughter and the stumbling, seen the wild swaying of the torch beam through the uncurtained window. If he'd been awake he'd have heard them coming because there was nothing quiet in their approach. In the bedroom the ice would be thick on the inside of the window and the sheets would feel chill and damp.
The cold was another reason for Magnus staying where he was.
Earlier in the day there had been a dusting of snow, then with dusk this was covered by a sheen of frost, every crystal flashing and hard as diamond in the last of the light, and even when it got dark, in the beam from the lighthouse. People strained their ears and wondered what was missing. In Shetland, when there was no wind it was shocking. For eight years nobody had visited to wish him happy new year, but still he waited just in case. If there was a light at the window someone might come, full of laughter and drams and stories. He could feel himself dozing but he didn't want to go to bed in case someone should call at the house. The room was prepared for visitors, the fire banked with peat and on the table a bottle of whisky and the ginger cake he'd bought in Safeway's the last time he was in Lerwick.
In the corner the raven in the wicker cage muttered and croaked in its sleep. Magnus knew the time because of the fat clock, his mother's clock, which squatted on the shelf over the fire. Twenty past one in the morning on New Year's Day.
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