Page 72 of The Two of Us at the End of the World

And then the bridge lurched and she staggered and I shouted something, even though I don’t remember what it was other than loud and sharp and probably panicked. And then though the bridge abruptly stopped tilting alarmingly sideways and didn’t fall all the way down, the delicate nest slipped from her hands as she instinctively steadied herself against the list, and the egg tumbled out and over the edge of the rail. I watched it fall and then hit a branch and crack open, leaving a sad smear of yellow and something red on the pale bark.

One for sorrow, I thought, remembering the rhyme. Bad omen, if you believed in such things, which I was too young and hopeful to do. I wasn’t too young and hopeful not to be simultaneously angry with and fearful for the egg thief on the bridge above me. I tried not to let that appear in my voice.

Storm, I said calmly. Move very slowly towards the steps. Don’t shake the bridge. If it starts tilting again, run, but now just move slowly.

All the stubborn playfulness had been knocked out of her face by the sudden jerk the bridge had made under her feet. Her eyes were wide and there was a white tautness in the skin below them.

She didn’t move.

Sorry, she said.

Storm, I said, putting my best calming Cat-voice on. It’s fine, you’ll be fine, but you have to move now. I can’t come and get you because I’m big and the bridge doesn’t need more weight on it. OK? You’ve got to move gently to the steps.

The bridge creaked, as if to underline my words. She flinched and gripped harder on to the railing, her other hand still high in the sky and holding the empty nest, as if her priority was to keep it aloft where it would be safe.

Storm, I said in my most calm voice. You can put the nest down. Just start moving to the steps, slow and gentle. Like Grandmothers Footsteps—

What? she said. Grandmother’s what?

It was a game we used to play, I said, Doesn’t matter. Move like you’re creeping up on a deer and it hasn’t seen you yet.

She swallowed and nodded.

OK, she said. OK I can do that.

She put the nest down on the railing, but the tilt was too much, and she flinched as it tumbled off and fell softly into the greenery below.

Sorry. Shit. It was a magpie, wasn’t it? she said after a short beat. I was just, I wanted to show you—

She swallowed and suddenly looked very young.

Could have been a crow, I lied. Don’t worry about it. Move slowly now.

She nodded and began to edge gingerly towards the steps.

I couldn’t help looking at the yolk and the blood dripping off the branch. She caught me at it.

Bad luck, she said.

No such thing, I said – and at the time I wasn’t lying because as I said, I didn’t have the sense to believe that there actually was such a thing, but I may have said it a little too quickly.

I just gave her another encouraging smile to keep her moving towards the relative safety of the steps.

Just a good lesson, I said. Don’t disturb things unless you need to eat. And listen to me when I say things are dangerous.

Storm came down the tipped zigzag of steps just as shaken as the footbridge. She stepped on to the platform and slumped, all the tension going out of her body.

I’m OK, she said. I really am sorry, Mouse. And I wish I hadn’t broken that egg.

She looked up at me. Her eyes were wet now.

I just wanted to show you how blue and perfect it was in its bed of feathers. I wish I hadn’t touched it, she said.

Since I wasn’t going to let her hear me say I wished that too, I didn’t say anything. Instead, I went and got food from the packs and we sat on the moss-cushioned top of a wall eating in a silence that I guess was companionable enough for both of us. We drank some water and split an apple, and then picked up our stuff.

I’ll get the goat, she said. My turn.

Which was her way of saying sorry. There was nothing bad about Storm, not underneath. All the stuff on top was like a kind of protection. Like armour. That’s what I now know. And given what had happened to her in her life before she and Freya came into ours, her need for armour was understandable. Looking back, Cat and I getting irritated by it is the thing I question. They had the right. So maybe we should have been bigger about it. Not that being bigger would necessarily have changed anything. It’s just that the thought is like a barb that hooks out of my memory just enough to snag all the regrets I have about what happened and stop them getting swept away in the flow of time.