leaned down to the girl and laid it round her neck. Then slipped out.
The next day the girl told her sister that an angel had visited her in the night.
On the way home Elisabet stopped by the pump-house and went inside. Blue light filtered through a slit in the roof; she put out her hand so that the ray of light illuminated it, then closed her fist. The cold silence was broken only by the clear, pure voice of the water. Elisabet listened. When she was convinced that its song hadn’t changed, she went back out into the dawn light and headed for home.
15
She stood by the kitchen fire, warming herself. A platter on the table beside her held two freshly caught haddock, their scales glistening. She wished she could follow the advice of Mrs. Andersen, whom she had lodged with in Copenhagen, and fillet and fry them with mushrooms and parsley, but she didn’t know how. She moved closer to the flames, stretching out her hands and listening in silence to the crackling fire.
She didn’t notice when Katrin crept in. Katrin had avoided her since she came home, as if shy of her. She stopped in the doorway and coughed. Elisabet turned round and smiled at her, then continued warming herself. She was still chilled after her walk along the shore.
Katrin spoke softly, muttering into her chest:
“Aren’t you going to finish embroidering the panel, then?”
“What?”
“The panel you were halfway through when you left for Copenhagen.”
Katrin had had meningitis as a child and people who didn’t know her well said it showed. Elisabet never thought about it. She and Katrin had always been like family.
Elisabet beckoned her over and shifted so that there was room for both of them in the warmth from the hearth.
“That embroidery with the little castles. And deer and trees.”
“Are there deer on it?”
“Big deer. Almost as big as the castles.”
Katrin stretched out her hands like Elisabet, though she had been warm all morning. Elisabet took them in her own hands and ran her fingers over them. They were rough.
“Wouldn’t
you
like to finish the embroidery?” asked Elisabet.
“Me? No, it’s yours.”
“You can have it. I’d forgotten all about it.”
“Thank you, Lisa. I’m so happy you’re back.”
Water trickled into the corner sink in a thin, faltering stream. Otherwise, all was quiet. Elisabet noticed a carpenter striding along the path outside, entering the storehouse by the garden wall and emerging with a couple of planks. He looked up at the sky. Life crawled forward. Nothing had changed. Almost nothing.
“Two weeks,” said Katrin.
“One week.”
“Until you get married.”
“Until he comes home.”
Each day was like the next, the sea in the morning and the sea in the evening, wood in the stove when she awoke, the piano in the parlor, the wind in the birch scrub and the smell of burning kindling from the store where they smoked sheep’s heads. Her father asleep in his chair at the end of the day, a book in his lap, his glasses perched on the tip of his nose, mouth open.
“Lisa?” said Katrin softly.
“Yes?”
“When you’re married . . .”
“Yes?”
“. . . and your father is dead . . . You know how much I care about him . . .”
It was on the tip of Elisabet’s tongue to say that her father was as strong as an ox, though he was getting on. He’s still very healthy, she was about to say, but didn’t.
“. . . then what’ll happen to me?”
“Katrin, dear Katrin. Please don’t worry. Father’s not about to go anywhere, but when it does happen, you’ll stay with me. Always. With us.”
“Do you think he’ll have me? Your husband?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve been so worried.”
She leaned against Elisabet, resting her head on her shoulder.
“Tell me about him . . .”
16
I was just trying to remember what you were wearing the first time we met. I’m sitting in the kitchen, letting my mind wander, having filed the bills away in the drawer and prepared the
The next day the girl told her sister that an angel had visited her in the night.
On the way home Elisabet stopped by the pump-house and went inside. Blue light filtered through a slit in the roof; she put out her hand so that the ray of light illuminated it, then closed her fist. The cold silence was broken only by the clear, pure voice of the water. Elisabet listened. When she was convinced that its song hadn’t changed, she went back out into the dawn light and headed for home.
15
She stood by the kitchen fire, warming herself. A platter on the table beside her held two freshly caught haddock, their scales glistening. She wished she could follow the advice of Mrs. Andersen, whom she had lodged with in Copenhagen, and fillet and fry them with mushrooms and parsley, but she didn’t know how. She moved closer to the flames, stretching out her hands and listening in silence to the crackling fire.
She didn’t notice when Katrin crept in. Katrin had avoided her since she came home, as if shy of her. She stopped in the doorway and coughed. Elisabet turned round and smiled at her, then continued warming herself. She was still chilled after her walk along the shore.
Katrin spoke softly, muttering into her chest:
“Aren’t you going to finish embroidering the panel, then?”
“What?”
“The panel you were halfway through when you left for Copenhagen.”
Katrin had had meningitis as a child and people who didn’t know her well said it showed. Elisabet never thought about it. She and Katrin had always been like family.
Elisabet beckoned her over and shifted so that there was room for both of them in the warmth from the hearth.
“That embroidery with the little castles. And deer and trees.”
“Are there deer on it?”
“Big deer. Almost as big as the castles.”
Katrin stretched out her hands like Elisabet, though she had been warm all morning. Elisabet took them in her own hands and ran her fingers over them. They were rough.
“Wouldn’t
you
like to finish the embroidery?” asked Elisabet.
“Me? No, it’s yours.”
“You can have it. I’d forgotten all about it.”
“Thank you, Lisa. I’m so happy you’re back.”
Water trickled into the corner sink in a thin, faltering stream. Otherwise, all was quiet. Elisabet noticed a carpenter striding along the path outside, entering the storehouse by the garden wall and emerging with a couple of planks. He looked up at the sky. Life crawled forward. Nothing had changed. Almost nothing.
“Two weeks,” said Katrin.
“One week.”
“Until you get married.”
“Until he comes home.”
Each day was like the next, the sea in the morning and the sea in the evening, wood in the stove when she awoke, the piano in the parlor, the wind in the birch scrub and the smell of burning kindling from the store where they smoked sheep’s heads. Her father asleep in his chair at the end of the day, a book in his lap, his glasses perched on the tip of his nose, mouth open.
“Lisa?” said Katrin softly.
“Yes?”
“When you’re married . . .”
“Yes?”
“. . . and your father is dead . . . You know how much I care about him . . .”
It was on the tip of Elisabet’s tongue to say that her father was as strong as an ox, though he was getting on. He’s still very healthy, she was about to say, but didn’t.
“. . . then what’ll happen to me?”
“Katrin, dear Katrin. Please don’t worry. Father’s not about to go anywhere, but when it does happen, you’ll stay with me. Always. With us.”
“Do you think he’ll have me? Your husband?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve been so worried.”
She leaned against Elisabet, resting her head on her shoulder.
“Tell me about him . . .”
16
I was just trying to remember what you were wearing the first time we met. I’m sitting in the kitchen, letting my mind wander, having filed the bills away in the drawer and prepared the
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