"My family hails from Norway," Olaf says cheerfully, like the proximity of their countries immediately makes them neighbours. "We emigrated to Norsewood," he explains, offering the briefest of smiles. "And when the farms were a bit much, we moved to Auckland. Not a thousand years ago, though," he clarifies, as if such a point needs clarification.

He takes in another deep smell, because he can't place it and Olaf has been very in tune with his nose for a long time. "You're not a god," he says. "And you're not a giant or a dwarf," he says, puzzled. "But you're a thousand years old. Cool."