“Happy birthday, Josefine!” Arne Larsen placed a small, fresh-baked cake before his great-niece and stepped back with a smile. The girl's eyes lit up with joy at this unexpected treat, and she reached for it before hesitating and looking to her father.
“Uncle Arne, I'm not sure I can —”
Arne waved his nephew to silence. “Our gift, August. Saffi baked this just for Josefine.” August Hansen wouldn't accept charity for himself or his daughter, though Arne knew this birthday supper at Arne's inn was a strain on his limited finances. He could not have afforded even a small cake in addition. “It's not every day a little girl turns nine.”
The sweet aroma of the cake warred with the smells of the inn, the savory scent of roast beef and the nutty aroma of beer, and with a whiff of fresh fish from August. He was a fishmonger, and the odor of fish sank into his pores and could not be entirely removed no matter how thoroughly he washed.
August beamed as he watched Josefine's careful precision in cutting the cake, ensuring they each got an equal share. Ever since she'd been old enough to manage utensils, she'd insisted on taking care of such chores, for August had been born without a right hand. His right arm ended a hand-span below his elbow, with a few tiny, rudimentary fingers on the stump.
Josefine was not the daughter of August's body, but of his brother Simon. Simon had married his girlfriend rather hurriedly a month before the army sent him to Kastrup Base. Three months later, Simon was dead along with everyone else at Kastrup Base, and three months after that, the young widow gave birth to Josefine. Announcing her intention to start a new life, she handed the infant over to Lulla, the oldest of Simon’s four siblings, and took ship to Sweden; no one had heard from her since. Since August's three surviving siblings were already married and had children, he adopted the child and showered her with all the love and attention she should have received from her natural parents.
Josefine and August had light brown hair and eyes, unlike Simon, who had been a blond with blue eyes. Though August was of average height and stocky build, while Josefine was slender and tall for nine, she resembled her uncle as much as if she'd been his daughter.
Later that evening, when the last patrons had walked away in the late April darkness, Arne, his daughter Saffi, his son Poul, and the server Carryn cleaned away the detritus of the day.
“I expected August's girlfriend to come with them,” Arne said.
“Yeah, that didn't work out,” Saffi replied. Thirty-five and a tall brunette, Saffi had helped at the inn since she was a toddler and was a superb cook. “Rebekka told me last week he broke up with that woman.” Rebekka was August's younger sister, a close friend of her cousin Saffi.
“Why so?”
“Because townies are morons. Present company excepted,” Saffi added with a nod to Carryn.
“So she says, despite having married one,” Carryn replied, grinning down at them as she swept the open wooden staircase that led to the rooms for let, currently empty. Short, stocky, and blonde, Carryn was in her early forties and had worked for Arne for half her life. She was herself a townie who had married Saffi's second cousin weeks before taking work at the inn.
Arne chuckled at their words, his thoughts naturally drifting to the tight-knit community of Little Copenhagen nestled within Rønne. He well knew the bond among those whose ancestors had survived the Great Dying together, a bond that had kept many in Little Copenhagen marrying within their community. His wife, Lillemor Søndergaard, had descended from the founding group, just as he had. Yet, as he glanced at Saffi and then at Carryn, he approved of the way some, like his daughter and her cousin, had built bridges with the wider community by marrying outside the traditional circle.
“Lars is different. Anyway, that woman took it upon herself to tell August how happy he'd be when he had children of his own.”
Arne and Carryn rolled their eyes at each other, and Poul glanced at them, puzzled. At thirty, he had the mind of a young teen, and his father and sister hadn’t tried to clarify for him August’s relationship to Josefine. With a shrug, he returned to wiping down sturdy, handmade wooden chairs and tables. Old floorboards creaked under his feet, and the sharp smell of vinegar followed his rag.
Arne shook his head, but said nothing. August was a kind-hearted, loyal, hard-working man who could make some woman a good husband. The Little Copenhagen community fully accepted him with his disability and honored his decision to adopt his brother's child. Nearly everyone made their living from the sea, so to them, his scent of fish was the scent of success.
Yet August was thirty-two and still hadn't found a wife. He would have married within Little Copenhagen, but the community was so small and so tight-knit that there were only two women near his age who were unmarried and not his close kin … and he and they just hadn't clicked. He would have to find a wife among the townies, and townies were a mixed lot. Carryn was an excellent employee; Saffi's husband, Lars, was a skilled and reliable sailor. But Simon's wife — widow, that is — had abandoned her daughter without a care.
There was nothing Arne could do for his nephew. He focused on his work and forgot about August's problems for several weeks.
In mid-June, Arne welcomed Mikkel and Mette Madsen to the inn with a smile. With the inn near empty in the mid-afternoon, the visitors had their choice of tables; they took a back table and waved for Arne to join them.
“Well, Mikkel,” Arne said, “I didn't expect you back so soon. And you walked?” He signalled Carryn to bring them mugs of cool fresh water, seeing they'd had a long walk in the heat. “Have you found a job?” Mikkel, a quarter century Arne's junior, had been his friend almost since the day seventeen-year-old Mikkel walked into the inn, some fifteen years before. During that time, Mikkel had joined and been discharged from the army, had travelled all over the Known World, and had held many jobs in Rønne, losing them because of his pranks and resistance to authority. Most recently, he'd returned to his family's extensive farm after losing another job.
“No, not quite —”
“We had to leave because Mille's mad at him,” Mette said with a grin. She was above average height for a woman and sported dark curly hair and bright blue eyes. Arne had met her before but didn't know her well.
Arne narrowed his eyes, trying to remember a “Mille” among the Madsens. Mikkel and Mette were two of seven children, with Mikkel and his twin brother the eldest and Mette the baby of the family, just twenty-two. “Mille? Oh — isn't she the one with the Orphans?” Her children's fathers had died at Kastrup; such children were referred to as “Orphans.” At the Madsens' nods, Arne went on with some trepidation, “So what did he do to Mille?”
Mette's grin grew broader. “He got in a fight with her boyfriend, Sven.”
Arne looked at his friend in dismay. Mikkel was tall, broad-shouldered, and heavily muscled, with wavy dark blond hair and magnificent sideburns, though he was otherwise clean-shaven. He'd never been violent — well, except that once —
“We didn't come to blows,” Mikkel said with an amused glare at his little sister. He turned to Arne. “A blacksmith should have more pride in his work. That man's — that person's horse … I could have shod that poor animal better.”
Carryn removed the water mugs and set mugs of beer in front of them, good heavy pre-Rash plastic mugs with the heads just spilling over. She lingered nearby to hear the story, for she and Mikkel had long been friends.
“And he told Sven that,” Mette said, “in detail, with lots and lots of words. And then Sven threatened him —”
“He squared up on me. Me! That person thought his blacksmith's muscles would intimidate me.”
“So Mikkel just folded his arms and said, 'Okay, hit me, big man.' ” Mette pressed her fists together in glee. Arne chuckled. There were few men who could rock Mikkel with a single blow, and fewer still so foolish as to try it.
“I think he really thought about it,” Mikkel said with a faint smile. “But he had the good sense to back down. He said our whole family was crazy, and what he said about Mille —” Mikkel clenched his jaw.
“Yeah, that's when Mille ran away crying, and Papa told Sven to leave and never come back, or we'd set the dogs on him. And then Mikkel said —”
“No need to repeat that. I was furious. And he rode away on that poor horse with the horseshoes coming loose. No animal deserves a master like that.” He took a deep, angry draught from his beer.
“And Mille was mad at Mikkel?” Arne asked in some disbelief.
“She's lonely.” Mette's amusement faded. “I mean, she's got the kids, and we all help her, but a husband's different, you know? There's just a few of our male cousins that aren't married — I mean, that are close to her age.”
“Three,” Mikkel said. “Not much choice there, and they don't … fit.” He shrugged. “She needs someone from outside, but it's hard, with three kids. So she was mad at me for running off Sven —”
“Well, really, Papa ran him off.”
“But I started it. She's better off alone than with him. If he'd threaten a grown man just for questioning his skill, you don't even know what he might do to a wife. Or to children.” Mikkel glanced at Arne before taking a sip from his beer. “She'll cool down and realize that. In a while.”
Arne avoided further Madsen family drama when a group arrived for a late lunch. It was not until that night that a thought occurred to him. Mille had limited marriage prospects among the Madsens, and August had equally limited prospects in Little Copenhagen. Together, they just might solve each other's problems.
With a little help.
August's fingers itched. Not his good fingers, his left-hand fingers, but his tiny right-hand fingers. The padding inside his prosthetic protected them from the hard wood, but it gathered the summer heat and pressed it against the delicate digits. Sometimes he thought of cutting off those tiny fingers. They were useless, after all; he could scarcely wiggle them. A few snips with the shears, a few days with a bandage, and they'd never bother him again. But no, they were part of him, however defective.
Rønne simmered in unaccustomed late-summer heat. Warm and humid, the air was thick with the salty scent of fish, the yeasty fragrance of bread, an occasional sharp whiff of dyes, and the sweaty smell of overheated people. Gentle breezes sneaked between sturdy warehouses and shabby vendors' stalls, bringing with them the briny odor of the sea. Customers in light clothes drifted from stall to stall as if in a dream, their voices muffled by the heavy air. Only the children who darted through the sparse crowd, intent on their errands, their eyes sparkling with determination, seemed awake.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Mogensen. Will you have cod today? Or I've got some very nice silver salmon.”
Mr. Mogensen would have cod, as usual. He haggled over the price, as usual, but the price they agreed upon would give August a fair profit over the fisherman's price. August deftly filleted a cod for him, holding it down with the gloved wooden right hand as he sliced with his left hand. The wooden fingers were slightly curved in a natural position and well-separated to allow the glove to fit. The palm was angled to the left, and a spring-loaded catch in the center of the palm would accept the handle of a fork. A cousin had made it as a labor of love.
As he worked, a second customer approached, a stranger to August. Though he knew most of his customers by name and by preferences, there were over five thousand people in Rønne, and some came rarely to the port to buy fish. The woman stared at his right hand, a reaction with which he was all too familiar. After Mr. Mogensen stashed the fish in his basket and moved on, she came forward to scan the fish crowded in their saltwater-filled chests. “Two of those and one of those,” she said, pointing out the fish she wanted. “How much?”
She didn't haggle, and he knew why. With a mixture of shame and offense, he handed over the fish and accepted her payment. Like so many, she thought him an army veteran, thought he'd lost his hand in honorable combat. As if there were dishonor in being born with such a defect! Still, he would not show his stump and its fingers; these townies gossiped more than enough with their fantasies about the Little Copenhagen community. He'd heard them: “Oh, everyone knows about those people from Little Copenhagen. They keep it all in the family. You know.”
August ground his teeth at the memory. The people of Little Copenhagen were tight-knit, but they had been careful to avoid inbreeding, and his birth defect was just the product of bad luck. But there was no point arguing with townies about that.
Another customer approached, another stranger. Or was he a stranger? Tall and broad-shouldered, he seemed familiar, but August couldn't place him.
“Mikkel Madsen,” the man said, nodding but not offering a hand to shake as both of August's were quite fishy. “And you're August Hansen?”
“I am. What can I interest you in?” August turned to gesture at the chests of fish. “I have fresh silver —”
“I'm not here for fish. I'm a friend of your Uncle Arne. Alfred — you may know him — Alfred and I are in town fetching supplies for our family in the interior, and we stopped at the inn for a beer on this blistering day.” He fanned himself with a large hand, and August nodded, wondering why this garrulous stranger was wasting his time. “Arne bragged to us about your little girl, but he said she'd never ridden a horse!” He said the last words as if the situation were a personal affront.
August's stall brought in enough money to support him and his daughter, enough that Josefine didn't have to work whenever she wasn't in school. Oh, she often helped at the stall, but he made sure she had time to study as well. She was a clever girl, and he hoped she'd go far. Still, while they didn't go hungry, there was no money for luxuries like pony rides.
“She hasn't. Perhaps when she's older.”
“No, no. Alfred takes care of our horses — we have several — and he's taught all of us to ride. All of us Madsens.” He gave a slight smile. “There are a lot of us. Anyway, he's going to teach your daughter along with my sister's children tomorrow. They're younger than your girl, so she'll be easier to deal with. You, too, of course. Alfred's fetching supplies, but he'll be ready to go back soon. You'll have time to pack some things. We'll put you up tonight and tomorrow, or as long as you want to stay; we've got plenty of space.”
“Wait — wait —” August was sure he hadn't agreed to any of this, hadn't even nodded at any point. He looked around with some desperation. “I can't leave. The fish will die. I have to sell them.”
The man leaned over the counter to examine the wares. “Fish fry tonight! It's only a couple of hours to the farm; they'll survive 'til we get there. We have a pond, but there's nothing much in there but the pike. The pike eat the other fish, you know, and we tire of pike sometimes. How much for all of them?”
Mikkel haggled over the price, but not much. After handing over the kroner, he peered around as if Josefine might hide nearby. “Where is she?”
“At the library. Studying.”
Mikkel gave a slight, quick grin. “I studied there. I even worked there for a time. They'll still let me in, though. Probably. At least long enough to tell Josefine to come talk to you. I'll fetch Alfred and we'll pick up you and the fish.” And he was striding away through the crowd.
Three hours later, the cart turned onto the track that led to the Madsen farm. In this forest far from the sea, the atmosphere grew crisper and more refreshing. Gentle breezes whispered through the trees, carrying with them the earthy odor of pine needles and the elusive scent of flowers. The shade and the drier air offered a cool respite from the coastal humidity. Birds flitted from branch to branch, and the forest was alive with their calls and the hums and creaks of insects.
Alfred Madsen, a decade older than August, similar in height, dark-haired, and taciturn, guided the two horses with hardly a glance at Josefine, who rode on the box beside him, peering about in wide-eyed excitement. August and Mikkel sat together in the cart, crowded by bags, boxes, baskets, and the chests of fish. August had feared Mikkel might jabber the whole way, but the man had confined himself to answering Josefine's eager questions about birds and trees. He answered in great detail, but he was otherwise quiet.
August and Josefine would stay with the Madsens for three days. His sister-in-law had happened by while he tried to explain — over Mikkel's frequent interruptions — that he couldn't neglect his stall for so long. She'd volunteered that she and her older children could handle the business for him. It was fate, Mikkel contended, and August had had no choice but to concede.
At the large farmhouse, a crowd of young people descended on the cart, seizing these packages, leaving those, helping the visitors down … and quite suddenly Alfred was driving away and August was facing a stern older man on the steps before the farmhouse.
“Papa, this is August, one of Alfred's kin from Rønne, and his —” Mikkel began.
“Alfred's kin. That would be Alfred who just left them behind.” The man folded his arms and looked pointedly at the departing cart before turning back to Mikkel.
“Well, yes. Alfred has to deliver the other supplies. But he's going to teach Mille's children to ride tomorrow, and he'll teach August's daughter, too; this is Josefine, right here. She's nine. They'll stay for a few days. August can sleep in the guest room, and Josefine can have Mette's room.”
“And is Mette aware of this arrangement?”
“I'm sure she —”
“Of course she can have my room! Maja will put me up. She's got a good couch.”
“Wait —” But it was impossible to stop the Madsens once they got going. August and Josefine were hustled into the farmhouse and shown their rooms, and by the time they'd settled in, the promised fish fry was ready.
After a raucous outdoor meal with several dozen Madsens, Mikkel took charge of August and Josefine, introducing them to his many siblings, including Mille, the mother of the other children to be taught to ride. She was a couple of years younger than August, tall for a woman and slender, with wavy blond hair cascading over her shoulders and bright blue eyes. Her son, Christoffer, was seven, and she had twin daughters, Annagrete and Frederikke, who were five. Polite to August and kind to Josefine, she was cool to Mikkel, who hastily took his visitors to meet others.
Mindful of the way Mikkel had displaced his sister Mette without warning, August slipped away from him to Alfred, standing well away from the crowd and sipping a beer, and asked if the man had agreed to teach Josefine rather than being presented with a fait accompli.
“Arne talked to me about her. It's just not right for a child to grow up without riding a horse.” Alfred shook his head at the failings of the world. “She moves well and listens to instructions. She'll learn fast.”
There was nothing to say to that but profuse thanks.
Six or eight young Madsens about Josefine's age took her off to see the farm, and Mikkel's mother, Freja, called after them, “Stay away from the pond! We don't want her drowned!”
“Do you lose very many children in the pond?” August asked, watching his daughter skipping away with her new friends and wondering if he should call her back.
“No, no. We've never lost a child that way,” said Morten, the stern father.
“Well —” Freja began.
“We've had some fall in, but we fished them all out, no problem.”
August could only sigh with relief when Josefine returned several hours later, undrowned and with no broken bones. He shivered at tomorrow's prospect.
Finding breakfast ready when he woke up was an unaccustomed luxury for August. As he seated himself with thanks to Freja, his daughter and Mette trotted down the creaking staircase of the old farmhouse. Josefine wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut short, and battered blue jeans, stained, faded, and patched.
“These old clothes of mine are perfect for riding,” Mette hastened to explain. “We don't want her clothes to get torn or start smelling like horses.”
It seemed impossible to restrain Madsen generosity, so, resigned, August thanked them again and watched his daughter tuck into a hearty breakfast.
After breakfast, Mikkel appeared and led his guests to the horse pasture, a half-kilometer hike in the cool morning air. They passed the pond, more a small lake; August could readily imagine a child drowning in the deep water. Josefine questioned everything, and Mikkel lectured with a will. He left them at the pasture, claiming work to do.
Mille and her children were already there. Near the large barn, a couple of teenage boys led the little girls about on placid chestnut ponies, their muzzles gray with age. A dark bay horse with a large white blaze on the face stood saddled and bridled beside a mounting block. Farther out, the boy, Christoffer, rode a bay horse that looked too big for him. Alfred, beside him on a similar but larger bay, seemed born to the saddle, every move matched to the horse. Both horses' ears flicked towards him as he murmured commands. Beyond these two, a small herd of mares and foals grazed in a field of grass and clover. Above them, the sky was blue but clouds were building in the west.
August stopped beside Mille to watch her children, while Josefine darted towards the waiting horse. She slowed to a walk at a comment from one of the teens and raised a cautious hand to stroke the horse's muzzle. The horse looked far too big for her, and August bit his lip, wondering if he'd made a terrible mistake.
Mille smiled at him. “Alfred is an excellent teacher. He's taught dozens of us, and no one's ever been killed.” Her smile broadened at his expression. “Our horses are the gentlest and best-trained that you'll ever see. I promise, your little girl will be safe.”
Seeing them, Alfred led the way back to the barn. As the horses trotted back, Christoffer clung to the horn as he bounced in the saddle, but his grin was broad and his eyes shone with joy. At Alfred's whistle, yet another teen, a girl this time, ran out to take Christoffer's bridle and lead him to ride at a walk behind his sisters. Alfred swung down, dropping the reins, and strode to join Josefine. His horse stood motionless, watching him.
“Are those Alfred's children helping with the horses?” August asked to distract himself from his worried study of the proceedings.
“No, he doesn't have any children. They're cousins.” August listened with half an ear, nodding now and then, as Mille named the young people and described their relationships with Alfred and herself. At length, she gestured at Josefine. “Is she your only child?” At his nod, “She's a sweet girl. I hope my two grow up like that.” She shook her head, still smiling. “Three is a lot. I'd planned for two, but my family runs to twins, and what can you do?”
“They seem very well behaved. Aren't your brothers twins, too?”
“Mikkel and Michael, yes.”
“I think I met all your siblings last night, but I met so many people that I honestly don't remember.”
“There are seven of us. It gets confusing since we all start with 'M'. My parents were very creative with names.”
“You're somewhere in the middle?”
“Exactly in the middle. I have two older brothers and an older sister, and two younger brothers and a younger sister.”
“Convenient. I'm in the middle, too. An older sister and brother, and a younger sister and brother.”
With idle chatter about family, the farm, and Rønne, August relaxed and watched as Alfred helped Josefine into the saddle, led her horse around, then swung into his own saddle and led the two older children into the pasture to practice walking and trotting. A proud father, August was certain that Josefine already rode better than Christoffer.
As the children practiced their riding over the next several hours, the clouds moved in, and by afternoon, the rains began. Everyone ran for the barn, where Alfred and his assistants un-tacked the horses, gave them a quick grooming, and led them to their stalls. With the horses comfortable, Alfred led the way to his nearby cottage, where an abundance of food offered a hearty lunch.
August removed the glove from his right hand and pressed a fork handle into the catch so he could cut his mutton. Christoffer and one of the little girls wandered over to watch.
“Did you lose your hand in the war?” the boy asked.
August didn't correct wrong assumptions about his hand, but he wouldn't lie about it. “No, I was born this way.”
The girl's eyes went wide. “With a wood hand?”
Even August had to laugh at that. As the other girl and the teens watched, he pulled up his sleeve, unbuckled the prosthetic, and removed it. Cool air felt good on the stump and the tiny fingers. “No, like this. You see, my hand tried to grow, but didn't quite finish.”
“Like Tripod,” Christoffer told his sister, who looked puzzled.
“Tripod was a cat,” Mille said. “He was born with three legs; the left hind leg was missing. He died a couple of years ago. A good old cat.”
Their innocent curiosity satisfied, the children and teens turned back to their lunch. Relieved by their reaction, August smiled at Mille, who smiled back at him.
After lunch, Alfred took the children to learn about horse care. When the rain paused in the late afternoon, Mille, August, and the children ran back to the main farmhouse, where a crowd of young Madsens met them and took the children for indoor games.
The next two days passed as a blur, with the children and even August taking riding lessons when the weather allowed and otherwise enjoying the company of the Madsen family. Much too soon, August and Josefine climbed into the wagon with Alfred and went home to Rønne.
Guests and fish stink after three days. What does that tell us about fishy guests? Mille smiled to herself as she waved farewell to August and Josefine. Though, to be fair, they were good guests, polite and appreciative, and they brought more food than they ate. She shook her head. We're a large family; we can feed a couple of extra mouths for a few days. And if anyone went hungry, it would be Mikkel and Alfred. Stop that. If I keep thinking this way, I'm going to start hoarding food like Grandpa Henrik, just in case of another famine. Mille shuddered at the thought and called the children to her.
There was work to do.
The children's clothes were patched and stained, worn by many others before them. Christoffer's shirt was more patches than shirt, Mille thought, but it would keep him warm, and no one wore good clothes for harvesting.
The eastern horizon was turning pink and frost crunched under their feet on this late fall morning as Mille led the children to her herb garden. Christoffer had a garden fork and trowel, the girls carried a bucket of compost between them, and Mille brought her own trowel, garden shears, a sharp knife, and a basket. At the first valerian plant, nearly as tall as Mille herself, she directed her son to loosen the soil with the fork. Though he had helped her harvest the previous year, she kept a close eye on him as he worked. He was not quite eight, and a year was a long time in which he could forget many things.
Still, the boy did a good job, and soon she knelt with him as they dug out the roots with their trowels. When the little girls, bored, threw clods of dirt at each other and their brother, Mille sent them to look for creepy-crawlies, with strict instructions to call her if they found any. So late in the year, their chances of finding much were slim, but the task would keep them busy for a while. The girls’ giggles floated back as they scampered off to search under fallen leaves, while the voices of other family members heading to the fields sounded in the distance. The garden otherwise lay in a hushed stillness; gone was the hum of bees, for no flowers remained to draw them, and the usual rustling of leaves was subdued by a delicate crust of frost.
Once Mille had harvested the roots she needed from the first plant, she called back her daughters to fill in the hole — “Carefully! No, just some of the compost; we have three more plants to go. Yes, push all the dirt back. No, not that hard —” Christoffer rolled his eyes at his sisters' antics before turning to loosen the soil around the next valerian plant. Catching his expression, Mille had to laugh. Who had taught him that?
Soon Mille carried her basket to the well, where she pumped water and the children rinsed the roots. This cleaned the children's hands along with the roots, though a certain amount of dirt made its way to the children's faces. As Mille carried the roots to her workroom, the children trailing after her, her sister Mette hailed them.
“All through with the kids?” Mette asked. “Good, then they can help me. We've got two gardens to harvest. Let's go!” With a grin at Mille's grateful smile, Mette was off, the children running to keep up with her.
Morning sunlight streamed into the workroom from the large south-facing window, casting its glow over pots of herbs arrayed along the sill. The faint odors of those herbs mingled with the scent wafting from the bundle of sage hung to dry in a corner. As she laid the roots on the large wooden table in the middle, Mille took a deep, appreciative breath before turning to the potbelly stove in the other corner. It had kept the room above freezing overnight, and when she pushed in a couple of small logs from the pile beside it, flames leapt up from the live coals within. While the stove warmed the room, she made another trip to the well for a pot of water to heat for tea.
Lighting a candle, Mille lifted a trapdoor and climbed down into the root cellar. Candlelight danced over shelves lined with an array of mismatched glass jars. Each jar held a tincture or dried herbs, slips of paper in front of the jars describing the contents. Humming a folk song to herself, she took a jar of willow bark tincture and, after a moment's consideration, another of valerian tincture. Everyone worked hard on the farm, but harvest-time meant harder physical labor than some were accustomed to. In such cases, their muscles would become tight, causing discomfort and even pain. They might need help with the pain, or help sleeping, both of which she could provide.
Making her careful way back to the workroom, Mille closed the trapdoor and put the jars in a cabinet to protect them from the light. More jars in the cabinet contained dried herbs, particularly chamomile, so often requested. Everything was now ready in case someone came to her for help.
Mille finely chopped the roots, their earthy smells warring with the other odors, then laid them on a rack to dry in the corner under the sage. Moving to the sill of her south-facing window, she checked and watered her pots of mint, dill, chives, and other herbs. As she picked a few leaves from each plant, she brought them to her nose to enjoy their fresh scents. These leaves she put aside to distribute later to her parents and siblings. That done, she prepared chamomile tea and took a few minutes to savor it before leaving to harvest potatoes from her vegetable garden.
As Mille lifted a basket of potatoes, her cousin Theodor hurried up and offered to carry it for her.
“Do you need something?” Mille asked, smiling to show she wasn't offended.
Theodor returned a shamefaced smile. “Isabella is anxious. We were hoping you could help us somehow.” His wife had suffered two miscarriages and was pregnant again.
“Any signs she's losing it?”
“No, but the risk —”
“Most herbs are strong enough to threaten the child themselves, so we won't use them yet. But … yes, I think nettle tea is gentle enough. While you store the potatoes, I'll fix you a jar of nettles. And chamomile; a mug of that in the evening might help her relax.”
Happy to help her cousin with her skills, Mille trotted back to her workroom. Soon Theodor left with two fired earthenware jars of dried herbs — glass jars with their fitted metal lids were too valuable to lend out — and Mille returned to harvesting.
That evening, when the harvesters had laid down their tools with relief, Mikkel came to Mille's workroom.
“I shouldn't be so sore,” he said, flexing his shoulders with a grimace. “I've gotten lazy in Rønne.”
Mille laughed. Her brother was many things, but he was not lazy. “You need some willow bark?” At his nod, she moved a pot to the hottest part of the stove and soon set two mugs of chamomile tea on the table. As the tea steeped, they chatted about the harvest and their family. Mikkel straightened with interest as she mentioned Isabella.
“Isn't cod supposed to be protective against miscarriage?”
Mille tilted her head back, remembering advice from older herbalists. “I believe that's so. When is Alfred going into Rønne? I'll ask him to bring her some.”
“I've got a better idea!” Mille winced. Her brother's “better ideas” generally weren't. “Remember August, the fish-seller, brought fish for the fish fry? I'll ask him back. We can have a fish fry, and Isabella can have lots of cod.”
The tea was ready. Mille added a drop of willow bark tincture to Mikkel's, reconsidered, and added a second drop. Mikkel was a big man.
“No, Mikkel, we don't need a fish fry just to get Isabella some cod. Alfred can just pick some up and —”
“Well, you don't want to single her out as the one person who needs cod, do you?”
Mille rolled her eyes as she stashed the tincture in the cabinet. “She is the one person who needs cod. And her miscarriage risk is hardly a secret. You can't drag him out here just to spare Isabella's feelings.”
Mikkel rubbed his chin. “It's not just Isabella. I'm sure Josefine — that's the daughter, remember — has never experienced a harvest out there in Rønne. And the girl's almost ten! She needs to enjoy that experience —”
“I'm not sure how much the daughter would enjoy 'experiencing' a harvest,” she said as she handed him his mug. “If you're sore from this work, imagine how sore she'd be.”
“She won't join us in the fields. She can help the little kids in the vegetable gardens. No! She can help you in your herb garden.” Mille sighed, acknowledging that her brother's mind was made up. Mikkel sipped his drink, smiling slightly. “This is perfect,” he said.
In the late afternoon three days later, the long tables and the chairs were already in place when Alfred brought his cart to the old farmhouse. As August and Josefine hopped down, half a dozen young Madsens descended on the cart to unload ice chest after ice chest of fish. The oldest Madsens, those spared the hard labor of the harvest, fried the fish, waving aside August's offer to help. Mille supplied dill for the fish, rosemary and parsley for potatoes, and so on, while her children ran about, fetching and carrying. There was always a feast at the end of the harvest, but a feast in the middle of the harvest, and a fish fry at that, was exciting for everyone.
“Mille?” She turned at the unfamiliar male voice.
“Ah, August, welcome. The fish looks great.”
“Thank you, thank you. Someone told me you raised the dill; it's delicious.”
As Mille thanked him in turn, she was distracted by Mikkel approaching with two plates of fish and vegetables. “Hey, Mille. And August,” he said, as if he'd just noticed the man. After a quick look down at the plates, and up at the others, he smiled. His friendly smile roused Mille's suspicions at once. “Here, you take these. You've both helped make this meal.” When they accepted the plates that he extended to them, he nodded and turned on his heel to stride away.
“Well, there are some seats at that table over there,” August suggested, and they took the seats together. August ate with his left hand alone. After several minutes of silence, he said, “I thought I saw one of your little girls over there.”
Mille craned her neck to look around him. “Oh, yes, that's Frederikke.”
“You can tell at this distance? They look identical to me.”
“They are, though there are little differences, so I can tell them apart close up. From here, though, she's wearing a blue ribbon on her ponytail. Annagrete's ribbon is red.”
“I'll bet they switch the ribbons sometimes.”
She laughed, and they fell into a pleasant discussion of their children. Later, after Josefine brought them each a sugar cookie before running off to join her new friends, they came to the topic of Rønne and August's fish stall.
“What will the fishermen do while you're gone for three days? Sell to others?”
“Oh, no, they'll still sell to me. Sort of, anyway. You know Arne Larsen, the innkeeper?”
“Yes, I've met him. He's one of Mikkel's friends.” An alarm bell rang faintly in the back of her mind.
“He's my uncle, and his son-in-law is one of my fishermen. So his daughter, Arne's daughter, I mean —”
“Saffi.”
“Yes, Saffi, she volunteered to run my stall while I'm gone.” Saffi was also Mikkel's friend. The alarm bell rang louder.
“All this fish,” Mille said as she scanned the crowd for Mikkel. “It must cost a lot.”
“I — well, I couldn't give it away, I had to sell it, but I asked a low price, because you've all been so good to us.”
“Who paid for it?” The alarm bell was howling now. Was that Mikkel over there? No, that was Michael, his outgoing twin, grinning broadly as he listened to someone. Mikkel would never grin like that.
“Mikkel paid. Is everything all right?”
There, that was Mikkel with his back to her. She glared at him as she spoke, biting off her words. “Who paid for the first fish fry?”
“Mikkel paid for that, too. I, uh, did I … do something wrong?”
Mikkel turned as if he'd felt her glare, and their eyes met. He raised his arms as if to shield his face, retreated, stumbled, and fell. Several men rushed to help him up as she turned to August. His eyes were wide, and he had hidden his wooden hand behind his back as if to protect it.
She took a deep, calming breath, ashamed that she'd alarmed a guest. “No, not at all. This isn't your fault. It's Mikkel's fault, and Mikkel is a moron!” She raised her voice on the last words, and family members within earshot chuckled. “My idiot brother is pushing us together. He brought Josefine here to learn to ride just when my kids were learning to ride so you and I had to watch our kids together. And now he brought Josefine here to 'experience' the harvest so you and I would spend time together again. He even gave us these plates so we'd sit together! And Arne's in on it, and Saffi — excuse me. I'm going to go have a chat with my beloved brother.”
But she didn't. Mikkel had escaped in the crowd and didn't show his face for the next three days. August was carefully polite and formal when he had to talk to Mille, while Josefine had a good time helping harvest vegetables and herbs. After three days, as she and her father climbed into Alfred's cart, she announced her intention to become an herbalist “just like Aunt Mille”.
“What's wrong, Papa?” Josefine looked up at Papa's face as the cart jolted over a hummock and the horse snorted, breaking into a brief trot.
Papa glanced at her, his set expression melting into a brief smile. “Nothing to worry about.” He turned back to watching the road.
Josefine turned to gaze at the passing forest and the trees in their autumn dress of red and gold, with the occasional deep green of pines. A fitful breeze swirled the fallen leaves and brought her scents of earth and decaying leaves and a whiff of smoke from a farmhouse somewhere beyond the trees. She sighed, knowing what his words meant: something was wrong, but she couldn't help, so she shouldn't worry.
He was so happy when we were going there, but something made him sad. Someone must have been mean to him again. She looked across his body at the wooden hand that rested on his thigh. In its glove, it was just like a natural hand. So many people see his hand, and then that's all they see. They never see that — “You're the very best Papa in the world!”
Her Papa turned to smile down at her, and it was a real smile this time, as he pulled her close in a one-armed hug. “And you're the very best daughter! Now, tell me what my very best daughter was up to these three days while I was hauling sacks of potatoes.”
“I helped Aunt Mille make a tincture and …”
They talked about the harvest all the way back to Rønne, and Papa smiled all the way.
Josefine snapped awake. Staring up in the darkness of her small bedroom, she listened to Papa snore on the other side of the thin wall and considered the dream. In the dream, as so many times before, she'd gone to strange and distant Sweden and knocked at her mother's door, and the door had opened.
Josefine had always known that Papa was not her father. Her father was a soldier, a hero, who'd died with so many others at Kastrup. Her mother had been too young, too poor, and too heartbroken to care for an infant, so she'd let Papa adopt little Josefine.
Or so Papa had always said.
A month or two before Josefine's ninth birthday, she'd come to understand from snippets of overheard gossip that Papa had … not lied, no, but shaded the truth for a little girl. Her mother had left her to be re-homed like an unwanted puppy.
Before she knew, the dream had always ended with her mother — face never seen — taking her longed-for child in her arms, overjoyed to see her. After, the dream had ended with her showing her mother how good she was, so her mother was ashamed to have abandoned her. But this time … This time her mother had hugged her with joy, but now her mother had had a face.
Aunt Mille's face.
Josefine thought about Mille, flipping through her memories as if through the pages of a library book. Mille chatting with Papa while Josefine tried not to fall off a horse; Mille and Papa cheering together when Josefine trotted around the field by herself; Papa taking off his prosthesis in front of Mille and her children, and no one being mean at all; Mille waving goodbye while Papa smiled and waved back. Papa had been so happy at the farm, and so happy when Mikkel said they could go back. Papa had smiled as he talked about Mille, smiled as he ate supper with her that first day, and then …
There! That's when it went wrong! I took two sugar cookies, and I said they were for me and Papa, and I really meant to eat them both all by myself. I was selfish, and I lied to get an extra cookie for myself, and I knew it was wrong when I did it. I saw Papa and Mille together, and I felt guilty for lying, so I gave them both cookies. After that, they didn't smile at each other anymore. Mille's supposed to be my new Mama, but I broke the magic with my selfishness, and now Papa's sad and it's all my fault! She wrung her hands in the darkness. I have to bring the magic back. Yes, that's it. I just have to figure out how.
She lay awake for a long time.
“Is Aunt Mille a nice person?” Josefine asked as she stirred a dab of honey into her porridge.
“Very nice.” Papa's eyes were sad. That was because the magic was broken, Josefine knew. At least Mille hadn't turned into a mean townie.
“I liked her. And Chris, too. Annie and Freddie were kind of silly, though,” she said, her gaze intent on Papa's face.
“Chris is a good boy, and I happen to know that silly little girls often grow up to be sweet and sensible young women.” Papa tousled her hair with a smile. “Now finish your breakfast. You don't want to be late to school.”
Okay, then, Papa will be happy when the children come to live with us. We'll put bunk beds in my room. Two sets, that'll work. And then Chris and the little kids can walk to school with me. Josefine trotted towards her school as she considered ways and means. The school occupied one small building of a pre-Rash complex in which the other buildings had collapsed. The children dared each other to explore the ruins, and the whole school endured long lectures about the dangers every time someone was caught. Although Josefine had sneaked through one building without being caught, she had no desire to try another.
We'll put another bed in Papa's room so Mille can sleep there after they marry. That way, we can all fit. Josefine nodded to herself as she slipped into her seat, satisfied with the arrangements. The Icelandic lesson began, and she concentrated on keeping up.
When her school let out in the early afternoon, Josefine turned left instead of right as she hurried away. Papa expected her to go to the library for a couple of hours before helping at the stall, but she had errands to run instead. Coins jingled in her pocket as she ran to Rønne's small shopping area.
Like most children of her day, Josefine made some money by running errands and doing odd jobs. Though she always told her Papa what she'd earned, he let her keep it to buy such little luxuries as she might like. She spent some on sweets, but for weeks she'd been saving for a paper theater with elaborate backdrops, wing flats, and paper characters with their wire holders for the play “The Tinder Box”. She dreamed of painting her own backdrops, flats, and characters.
I broke the magic through selfishness, so I have to do something generous to make up. She touched the coins wistfully, thinking of the theater she yearned for. Papa's more important. I'll work hard, and I'll still get my theater one day.
Josefine wandered down the street, peering into each storefront for something Mille would like. She had almost given up when she spotted a magnificent flower pot, intricately sculptured and painted with vibrant colors: just what the herbalist needed. Though she gulped a little at the price, she soon hurried out the door with the precious pot in her arms. This costs more than two sugar cookies, so it’ll reverse my selfishness. Now I just have to take it to Aunt Mille. She already had a plan for taking the present to Mille. Watching her feet so as not to trip on frost-buckled pavement, she hastened across the town. She breathed deep as she passed through the fragrant aroma of freshly baked pastries wafting from a bakery, but held to her course. There would be time for a cookie another day.
“Uncle Arne!”
“What have we here?” Arne waved to his server, Carryn, to take over the bar while he joined Josefine by the door. “That's a very nice pot you've brought, but why?”
“It's a present for Aunt Mille. Can I leave it with you until Uncle Alfred comes to town? When will he come? I want to go back with him so I can give it to her, but I don't want Papa to know.” She didn't tell him about the magic she'd broken and needed to fix, because grownups laughed at kids who talked about magic.
Arne stroked his chin as he regarded her. “Well, Alfred won't be back for a week, and when he comes, he'll stay until evening. If you go with him, you'll be at the farm all night, and your Papa will certainly know.” He smiled as she looked from the pot to his face, crestfallen. “However. We've got a cart right out there, and a horse getting fat in the stables. I don't see why Poul couldn't take you out there some morning and bring you back before your Papa knows you left.”
“Tomorrow?” Josefine asked, her optimism restored. “Can we go tomorrow?”
“Don't you have school tomorrow?”
“Sort of, I guess …”
Arne gave her a conspiratorial grin. “But you're a clever girl, so you can afford to miss a day. And Mille should have her present, don't you think? Now, let's put that beautiful pot in my office so it doesn't get broken, and you run along. Be back early tomorrow.”
Josefine stowed the pot and skipped all the way to the fish stall. She couldn't wait for tomorrow!
“I'm not sure which way to go.”
“Uncle Arne said you knew the way. He said you've been there before.” Sitting in the back of the small cart, holding her precious pot close, Josefine tried not to sound accusing. Papa had told her always to be patient with Poul.
“I have, but that was last summer. It's different with all the leaves dead like this.” He sounded almost tearful at his failure.
“I was there a couple of weeks ago.” Josefine leaned forward to peer past the man on his narrow seat. She smothered a yawn as she looked around; she'd been so excited that she'd hardly slept the night before. “There! See that fallen tree with the branch growing up? I saw that before. Take the right fork.”
With a grateful glance at her, Poul tsked at the horse, and they went on. An hour later, they turned up the track to the Madsen farm.
“Why, Josefine!” Mille stood in the doorway, looking past her, searching. “Where's your papa?”
“He had to stay and sell the fish. But, look! I got this pot for you, so you can teach me to be an herbalist just like you.”
Mille knelt to examine the pot. “That's so lovely, Josefine. I can't —”
What happens to the magic if she doesn't take it? “But you must! I got it just for you, because it's so pretty, and you're so pretty —”
Mille accepted the pot as Josefine held it out. She gave the farmyard another searching look. “Have you been talking to Mikkel?”
Josefine turned in confusion, peering about for the man. “No, I didn't know I should. Have I done wrong?”
“No, no, dear, you've done nothing wrong. And it's a lovely pot. Come inside and we'll find a place for it. You want to learn about herbs? Well, first you have to learn about soil.”
The girl followed her in and took a deep breath, enjoying the mingled scents of herbs and flowers growing in pots on the windowsills. “Isn't that just dirt?”
“Oh, no. You have to balance the sand and …”
After several hours of learning about soil and care of plants, Josefine joined Mille and her daughters for lunch, watching them closely to determine if, silly though they were, they gave promise of growing up to be sweet and sensible. She still wasn't sure, but they weren't obnoxious like some of the children at school, so Papa should be happy to have them as daughters.
In the afternoon, Josefine climbed into the back of the little cart and Mille handed her a small crate full of simple clay pots with cuttings or seeds in properly balanced soil. Poul tsked at the horse, and they set out with Josefine satisfied that Mille was now well on the way to becoming her mother.
As she should be.
“Wake up. Oh, please wake up.”
Josefine woke from her doze to find the cart stopped and Poul shaking her. The warm afternoon sun and a sleepless night had conspired to put her to sleep as she rode, but now the sun was low in the sky and a chilly wind had picked up.
“We’re lost,” Poul said, near tears. “I thought I could find the way, and I didn’t want to wake you, but we should be home by now, only we’re not, and I don’t know what to do.”
After a quick look at the pots to confirm none had spilled, Josefine peered around for any distinctive trees or ruins. The cart stood in the center of a crossroads, and the wind swept dead leaves across the roads all around. Already, their tracks leading in from the right were disappearing.
“Okay, we came from that way; let's go back that way.”
“No, no, no.” Poul wrung his hands as he spoke. “I went that way because I thought it looked right, but it wasn't, and I came back, only now I don't know which way I came here. The wind …”
The harness jingled as the horse shook his head and stamped a hoof as if impatient with human dithering. Josefine pressed a hand to her forehead. If only Papa were here! He'd help us, but he isn't here. We have to help ourselves. Now, what can we do?
“Look, we have to be east of Rønne, right? We can head west. We have to run into Rønne if we keep going west. Or, well, maybe we're too far north or south, but there are farms and fishing villages and places like that; we're bound to run into somebody who can give us directions. We'll go west.”
“West. That's towards the Sun. I can do that.” Poul turned around, shook the reins, and tsked at the horse. Josefine set the crate of pots on the floor by her feet and leaned forward, determined to stay alert until they were home safe.
At each crossroads or fork, they took the road heading more westerly. These roads were pre-Rash, their surfaces worn and weathered, marked with deep cracks and potholes that threatened to swallow a wheel. Their worn-out appearance that hinted at years of neglect, but sporadic patches of fresh gravel hinted at recent efforts to maintain these once well-traveled paths. The wagon jolted on crumbling asphalt, prompting Poul to hop down and lead the horse along the safest track.
Someone used these roads, Josefine thought, perhaps another large farm like the Madsens'. Such a farm might lie down each rutted track they passed, but she was reluctant to ride who knew how far in hopes of asking directions from someone who would likely say, “Go west”.
Poul tugged the horse to a stop and stared up a track on the right, prompting Josefine to lean out and squint along it as well. Like the others, the track was marked with deep ruts, but dry grasses and small, leafless bushes sprouted within the ruts, as if no cart had passed along it in some time. Still, it had to have been used since the Catastrophe, or it would have vanished entirely. A large, two-story farmhouse was visible at the end of the track; though there was no smoke from the chimney, it would not take them far out of their way, and perhaps there was someone there who might help them.
Poul nodded agreement at her suggestion and tied the horse to a sturdy branch. Leaving her precious crate in the wagon, Josefine led the way down the overgrown track towards the house. The closer they got, the more clear it became that this place had been neglected for some time. Though the roof looked intact, the windows, though unbroken, were grimy and dull, and its once-vibrant red paint was now weathered and fading. The once-flourishing garden was now crowded with withered stalks from which hung dried leaves that rattled in the cold north wind.
Josefine exchanged a quick glance with Poul, took a deep breath, and mounted the front steps. As they made their way to the front door, each footstep echoed against the stillness of the house. At close range, they saw spiderwebs stretched across the doorway.
“Let’s not,” Poul whispered.
Josefine scanned the spiderwebs, wondering where the spiders were and how big they were. Especially, how big they were. Turning away and leading the way back to the cart, she ran both hands across her hair. All the way back.
Poul followed Josefine back to the cart, his gaze darting around the deserted surroundings, with frequent glances at her. The unease that had settled upon them at the abandoned house lingered, and Josefine had to restrain herself from jumping into the cart to escape. Instead, she took care climbing in so as not to kick or step on the crate of pots. As soon as she set the crate on her lap, Poul pulled the horse westward once more.
“Do you smell that?” Poul asked a few minutes later, stopping at an intersection with a better-maintained north-south road. “Smoke and … the sea?” He cocked his head and listened, soothing the impatient horse. “I hear hammering and, and stuff.”
After a deep breath through her nose, Josefine gave him a grateful smile. “I think that's Rønne. We're south of it. Just a little farther and we'll be home!” They both gave the Sun, now near to setting, a glance, and Poul swung himself onto the box, urging the horse to a quicker pace on the north-bound road. As the horse trotted, the rhythmic thud of his hooves blended with the rustling dead leaves stirred by the north wind. Josefine shivered and hugged herself, hoping they were indeed as close as she'd said. It's late, and Papa will be worried. What can I say to explain this trip? He wasn't supposed to know. Oh, it's all gone so wrong!
While she still sought the words for her Papa, they found themselves in the city of Rønne, and Poul looked back at her with a wide grin. “I know where we are! Down that street and to the left … Almost home!”
Someone must have been watching for their return to the inn, for as Poul brought the cart to a halt beside the stables, her Papa rushed out, Uncle Arne behind him. “Josefine! Are you all right?” His voice was filled with concern as he helped Josefine off the cart, scanning her for any signs of injury. “You're so late — I've been so worried.” He licked his lips, startling her with this unusual gesture of nervousness. “Did anything, uh, bad happen? Did anything scare you? Or, or, confuse you?” He glanced at Uncle Arne, who was talking to Poul in low tones.
“No, no, Papa. We got lost, but I wasn't scared. I was sure we could find our way back. And we did, see? We did.” She glanced at Poul as well. “It's not Poul's fault that we got lost. He had trouble finding the way there, and I meant to help guide him back, but I fell asleep.” She hugged him, holding back tears. “Don't be mad at Poul, Papa. I should have stayed awake to help us both.”
“That's all Poul did, little Josie?” he asked softly, hugging her tight with his good arm. “He drove you there and back, and got lost along the way? He didn't do anything bad?” It was years since her Papa had called her “little Josie”.
“That's all, Papa. I mean — but I don't know what he did at the Madsens' farm. He went off with the boys while I was with Mille. That's not bad, is it?”
“No, dear heart. That's not bad at all.”
As he spoke, Uncle Arne came over and clapped him on the back. “There, young man, you see? All is well. I've talked to Poul and you've talked to Josefine. Now, bring your little girl inside, and we'll have supper.”
“We don't need that. We'll manage.” Papa tensed and Josefine looked up at him in confusion.
“No, August, I owe you. Come and have supper.”
Papa looked down at Josefine, and his shoulders drooped a little. “Let's have supper, then.” He released her and started for the door.
“Oh, wait!” Josefine said. “The pots!” She ran after the cart, which Poul was taking into the stables, and recovered the crate.
As they walked home in the moonlight, stuffed with stew, coarse bread, and cheese, Papa asked the question Josefine expected and had prepared for. “Why did you go to the Madsen farm?”
“Aunt Mille was mad at you and you were sad, and I wanted to make her like you again, so I gave her a nice pot.” There was no point explaining about the magic; even the best of grownups, like Papa, didn't seem to remember how important it was not to think the wrong thoughts. And, anyway, she didn't want to admit to her selfishness.
Papa put his good arm around her shoulders. “Oh, dear heart! What did I do to deserve a child like you?”
“You adopted me.” Grownups could be so forgetful sometimes.
Papa laughed. “The best decision of my life! But you didn't need to do that. Aunt Mille wasn't — isn't — really mad at me. She was mad at Mikkel because he meddles. Causes trouble, that is. Look, Uncle Arne has a solstice party at the inn every year. We'll go this year, and I'm sure he'll invite her. You can see her kids, and I'll talk to her. How's that?”
Josefine stopped to set down the crate and throw her arms around him. It worked! I fixed the magic!
After a moment she picked up the crate and they went on. Papa's tone sobered. “We'll have to be frugal for a while. I didn't do well today.”
Josefine nodded. Sometimes the fishing was poor, or the townspeople unaccountably didn't want much fish. She would find jobs instead of going to the library, and they would get by as they always had.
The next day at school, Josefine got a scolding from her teacher and many questions from her classmates. She described her journey without explaining why Mille needed a new pot, ignoring their snickers and gibes at her foolishness in getting lost.
When she reached the story of the abandoned house and a townie boy named Ragnar asked where it was, she hesitated. “I don't really remember. I mean, we were still lost when we found it. It was somewhere north. A couple of hours, maybe, but we were going slowly.” She wasn't sure why she lied; the house was south and only about half an hour's walk from Rønne. But she'd found it and she should get to explore it first. After all, there might be treasure inside.
And so three days passed. There was only porridge without honey for breakfast, and fried fish for other meals. After school every day, Josefine searched for errands and odd jobs she could do before helping her Papa at the fish stall, but it seemed everyone already had a young person or two to help out. At last, she went to the inn to see Uncle Arne, who knew everyone and would surely know of someone who needed her help.
Poul was repairing a wagon in the yard when she arrived, but stopped to greet her and ask how she was. When she said she needed work, he gave the inn an uneasy glance and beckoned her close.
“Nicoline said your Papa was really scared when we didn't come back in time, so he sold all his fish to her so he could look for you. Papa feels really bad about it.”
Josefine couldn't answer at first. Nicoline Hansen was another fish seller, and even though she was a close cousin, she wouldn't have paid Papa more than she would have paid the fishermen. That's why we have to be frugal. Papa wouldn't say, but this is all my fault! With a muttered farewell to Poul, she ran into the inn to find Arne.
“Uncle Arne!”
High-pitched, distressed. But Josefine was not crying, no blood, no limping, no awkwardly held arm. So this was a normal nine-year-old’s crisis, not an emergency. Arne released the well-worn truncheon that always lay on the bar and came around to talk to her. The few customers, chatting over beer while unwinding after work, politely turned away.
“What is it, dear heart? Come, have a seat back here and tell me about it.”
She was already talking as she followed him to the back corner table, where the light was dim and the inn’s sounds muffled. “Poul told me Papa sold all the fish to Nicoline, and now we don’t have any money, and it’s all my fault, and I can’t find any jobs, and it’s all my fault!”
The inn had its own sign language, developed over the years. Now, Arne signalled Carryn to bring two bowls of stew as he seated himself across from his great-niece. Of course Poul had told her. The boy, as Arne thought of his thirty-year-old son, had no understanding of secrecy.
“Slow down, dear heart. And listen to me. This is not all your fault. It’s not even mostly your fault.” Arne raised a hand to stop her objections. “I’m an old man and you’re a little girl. Okay, not so little anymore. Even so, I’m supposed to advise you better. Giving Mille that pot was a sweet idea and I don’t regret helping you deliver it, but I should have arranged things better. That’s my fault.”
Carryn brought the stew and steaming mugs of mint tea, setting them out before them.
“Oh, no, I can’t —” Josefine began.
“I missed lunch and I’m hungry, but it would be rude of me to eat in front of you when you’re not eating. So have some stew while I eat and think.” Though she hesitated, Josefine picked up her spoon when he did, and they ate together in silence for several minutes before he spoke again. “The problem now is financial. You need work.”
The inn brought in a steady income; Arne could afford to take Josefine on for a few weeks, even though he didn’t need her, but August would regard that as charity. Arne wouldn’t humiliate his nephew that way. He knew August would beg on his knees if he had to for his daughter’s sake, but things hadn’t come to that pass and wouldn’t if Arne could avoid it.
“So tell me who you’ve talked to about work.”
Josefine had, indeed, been thorough. She’d checked with everyone around the fish market, the library, and the school, along with half a dozen older cousins, before coming to him.
“That’s helpful. Now I know who not to talk to.” Arne sipped his mint tea before continuing. “I’ve got some ideas, but I’ll have to check on them first. Not to get your hopes up, but I think they’ll do. Finish up and run along home. Come by tomorrow; I think I can have something lined up for you.”
Much cheered, Josefine finished her stew, scraped the bowl for every drop, downed her tea, and ran out into the half-light of the late fall evening.
“… and she’s exceptionally conscientious, almost to a fault.”
Freya Nielsen gave her husband, Magnus, an uncertain look, her lips slightly parted. As Arne had called them from their work in the greenhouse, Magnus wore threadbare trousers held up by suspenders that crossed his broad back, while Freya wore equally threadbare clothes covered by an apron that might once have been blue but had faded to the color of a winter sky. They looked very young to Arne, but then most people looked young to him these days.
“But only nine years old. I don’t know …” Freya ventured.
“And Frederik is only eleven.” Both parents rolled their eyes at that. Their son, Frederik, had recently broken his arm in an ill-advised exploration of the ruin beside the school, leaving them in need of an assistant. “Josefine is mature for her age, more mature than Frederik, I think.” As they still looked dubious, Arne decided to sweeten the pot. “I tell you what. If you’ll take her on, I’ll cover her wages for the first week. Just add it to my bill. Then, if you’re not satisfied after a week, you let her go and I’ll find something else for her, and no harm to you. I don’t think you will, though.”
The couple looked at each other again before nodding in unison. “We’ll try her out,” Magnus said. “And I’m sure she’ll do well.” His tone was less sure than his words.
Arne nodded, raised a hand to be sure they paid attention. “That deal is just between us, though. Don’t let anyone know, especially not Josefine. It would upset her if she knew.”
With the Nielsens’ assurances ringing in his ears, Arne left them with thanks, feeling only a little guilt about pressing them to hire Josefine. His inn was their best customer, though not the only one, and he’d made no threats to change his custom if they didn’t hire her. And he was certain she would do well.
“A job at a greenhouse? Oh, Uncle Arne, you’re wonderful!” Josefine threw her arms around him in her joy.
“Well, now, you’ll have to work hard and make us all proud. They’re townies, you know.”
Josefine stared past him with a wistful smile. “Aunt Mille told me all about soil, planting seeds, and making cuttings … this is almost like being with her.”
Arne ruffled her hair. “Okay, let’s go now. I’ll show you the way. But remember, you must keep up your schoolwork too!”
“Oh, I will!” And she was so fervent that he had no doubts.
“Mille’s annoyed at your meddling,” Alfred Madsen said a couple of weeks later, as he and Arne savored their beer in the back corner of the inn.
“She can bond with August over that, then.” Arne took a sip, lowered his mug to the table. “What meddling? I’ve done nothing lately.”
“You sent little Josefine with that pot. She told Mille it wasn’t Mikkel’s idea, so Mille figures it must be yours.”
“Ah, no. That was Josefine’s own idea, and she bought it with her own money. The first I knew of it was when that child came into the inn with a pot almost as big as she was. My only contribution was to have Poul drive her to the Madsens’. That didn’t work as well as I’d hoped, alas, as the kids got lost on their way home. But, anyway, tell Mille it was Josefine’s idea, not mine.”
Alfred leaned back with a smile. “She’ll be happy to hear that. She likes that pot, but she doesn’t want to display it because of you.” He took a deep draught of his beer.
Arne returned his cousin’s smile and finished his beer. “Tell her she made a huge impression on that little girl. She’s got an after-school job at a greenhouse, and she can’t stop talking about it. And the Nielsens — it’s their greenhouse — they sing her praises every delivery.” Then Carryn signalled she needed help, so he left Alfred to drink and went to serve as innkeeper once more.
Late that evening, when the last guests had gone to bed upstairs or staggered home, and he and Saffi were cleaning up, Arne paused as he thought about his discussion with Alfred, and a slow, evil smile crept across his face.
“Oh, so beautiful!” Josefine let go August’s hand and clasped her hands to her chest in glee.
The shortest day had turned relatively warm, so the solstice party would be held outside as well as in. Workers had set up a large tent between the inn and the stables. Pieced together out of pre-Rash canvas, the tent formed a roof and three sides, with the open side facing away from the inn. Red and green ribbons hung from the roof, interspersed with the dark green of holly leaves and the bright red of their berries.
Portable stoves stood in the middle of the tent, where half a dozen people labored over pots and pans and grills. As August and Josefine approached, the cold winter air of the late afternoon warred with warm air that flowed from the tent, carrying with it the rich scents of roasting meat and frying fish.
Long, battered wooden tables, flanked on either side by benches, filled the rest of the tent and offered seating for a couple of hundred diners. Bowls of bright fruit from the greenhouses stood at intervals on the tables. Josefine pointed. “Look, Papa, those are from my greenhouse!” As August admired the fruits of her labors, Saffi trotted by with a basket of silverware, weaving her way through the dozens of partiers from the Little Copenhagen community.
“Josefine, August, welcome!” she said. “Hey, little one, would you like to help me set up the children’s tables?” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “We’ve got some treats …”
August watched as Josefine trotted away with a wave and a cheery, “Bye, Papa!” Despite the celebration around him, a wave of sadness swept over him. Nearer and nearer drew the time that his little girl would wave goodbye and trot off to join a young man. Of course, that was the nature of life, and he couldn’t wish for her to stay a little girl forever. But still … He turned away to greet the other partiers and made his way to where Arne served beer.
His uncle beamed at him. “Have a beer and celebrate, young man! The Sun will rise tomorrow!”
August accepted the offered beer, saying, “Saffi asked Josefine to help her, but I want her to have fun. If there’s work to be done, I —”
“Och, no, no. You’ve done your part; let others do theirs. And little Josie will have fun, I promise!”
One of August’s cousins approached for a beer, and August retreated. Of course he couldn’t work at the party. Although Arne hosted it, it was a celebration by the entire community. Like other shopkeepers, August had given food for the feast — several fish in his case — while others had given furniture and decorations. Those who had nothing tangible to give were working: cooking, cleaning, fetching, and carrying.
As afternoon and evening wore on, more and more people arrived. Josefine ran back to her father now and then, reporting the games the children were playing in the stables under Saffi’s watchful eye. By the time full dark fell, nearly everyone from the Little Copenhagen community was there, along with favored outsiders: about a dozen from Rønne, and a like number from the Madsen family, invited since they were Arne’s relatives and friends.
“August Hansen?”
August turned to the woman who had spoken. About his age, tall, with long, wavy dark hair tied back and hazel eyes, she was familiar, though he couldn’t place her.
“I’m Alma Madsen.” She smiled. “We met at the farm, but then, you met a lot of us, so you might not remember me.”
“You don’t start with ‘M’?” he asked before he could stop himself. Perhaps several drinks had loosened his tongue.
Alma laughed. “A lot of Madsens don’t start with ‘M’. It’s just Morten’s family that does that. And I married in, anyway. Michael is my husband, and, of course, all our children’s names start with ‘M’. We don’t plan to have any more, because we’re running out of names.”
August joined her laughter. “Well, welcome to the solstice party,” he said, unsure why she’d approached him. At least, since she was married, she couldn’t be interested in romance. At that thought, he glanced about and saw Mille across the room, chatting with a couple of men. Surely he had only been reminded of her existence and felt no jealousy towards those men.
“I heard your daughter goes to school here in Rønne. What can you tell me about the school here?”
August yanked his attention back to Alma. “She enjoys it, and I think she’s getting a lot out of it. There are a dozen teachers, so they can teach what they know best. May I ask why you’re interested?”
“Our son Mathias is your daughter’s age, and we have two little girls; they’re six. We teach our children on the farm, of course. We can all read and write and do arithmetic. Most of the children can even speak some Icelandic, since Maja’s husband is an Icelander, and he teaches them. Still, I think the children should have more exposure to the outside world. It feels like things are opening up — don’t you feel it? — and they should be ready to move out into the world.”
Here was someone else who felt her children were growing up and going away, but she seemed comfortable with the idea. August wished he could feel the same.
“I’d like my children and some of the other children to attend the Rønne school,” she went on, “but it’s going to be hard to persuade their parents to send them. It’ll be hard for me and Michael, really. Some of the Madsens have stayed in Rønne for months, sometimes, but they tend to come back to the farm. So there aren’t any of us living here now, and sending our children to live with strangers … Anyway, I’d like to know what the school is like and whether we should try to set things up for our children to go there.”
“Well, they emphasize Icelandic. They have several Icelanders to teach it, and they do a good job. Josefine is fluent in it, and she can read and write it as well.”
Three-quarters of the population of the Known World lived in Iceland. The island had isolated itself for decades after the Great Dying, but once they emerged from their fastness, they had swiftly come to dominate international trade. Speaking Icelandic was an invaluable skill in the Known World.
“And her other lessons?”
“They emphasize practical lessons, like bookkeeping …” As he described the school, Arne rang a cowbell and waved everyone to the tables. Since August and Alma were deep in conversation, he followed her without looking around as she led the way to a table. It was only as he started to take his seat on the bench that he realized he would sit next to Mille.
Mille looked up at him, leaned to glare past him at Alma, looked back at him. She rolled her eyes but smiled as a server set a plate of roast beef and potatoes in front of his seat. “You might as well sit down,” she said with a sigh. “If you try to leave, my beloved brothers” — she gestured at the men across the table — “will probably just drag you back here.”
This brought grins to the faces of the two big men across the table, Mikkel and his twin, though August couldn’t tell which was which. He supposed the one sitting across from Alma was likely Michael, which meant the one facing him must be Mikkel.
“So Mikkel’s pushing us together again,” Mille said with another sigh. “But it’s not your fault. So how are you? How is Josefine?”
Though the conversation was rather stiff at first, as they ate and chatted about their children, August relaxed and enjoyed Mille’s company. However, he avoided looking at the twins across the table or at Alma to his left; he could readily imagine their self-satisfied smirks.
After supper, the crowd moved to the periphery while workers removed dishes, tables, benches, and stoves, leaving the tent open for dancing. Mille bade August a polite farewell and joined her brothers; August retreated so as not to listen in. When amateur musicians with drums, flutes, and fiddles struck up a familiar tune, Josefine appeared at August’s side. “Will you dance with me, Papa?”
“Of course! But you know I’m not very good.”
“We practice at school, so I’m very good. You just have to keep from stepping on my toes.”
August laughed. It wouldn’t be difficult for him to dance with Josefine, since she was nearly as tall as the shorter women. Once they joined the other pairs on the dance floor, he paid strict attention to his feet, stepping forward and back, left and right, according to her whispered instructions.
When they stopped after the second dance and he turned to leave the floor, he found himself facing Arne and Mille, who had been dancing together. “Ah, it’s August!” Arne said, sounding rather the worse for drink. “And little Josefine!” He looked from Mille to Josefine and back. “Let’s trade.” As the next tune began, Arne offered his hands to Josefine, who took them with a broad smile and danced away with him.
August and Mille looked at each other as they stood on the dance floor, while others danced around them. After a frozen moment, Mille gave a resigned laugh. She took his hands, the real one and the wooden one, and they danced, with him watching his feet instead of her face.
“Arne isn’t nearly so drunk as he sounded,” Mille said after a while. “And your little Josefine was entirely too eager to dance with him.”
“So now Mikkel is scheming with Arne and my own daughter?” August wanted to be angry at the manipulation, but how could he, when Josefine was involved.
“I’m beginning to wonder how much is Mikkel’s scheming, and how much is Arne’s. Mikkel can’t have set up a dance with Josefine; he hardly knows her.”
“Both our families are pushing us together, you think?”
“It certainly seems that way,” she said. The music stopped and dancers changed partners, but they remained together, dancing when the music resumed.
“I don’t like to have Josefine involved,” August said. “And I don’t think our ‘friends’ are going to give up, and they’ll keep scheming with her. So … what if we just act like they’ve succeeded? Josefine and I could come visit you a few times, and maybe you could come to Rønne. Then they’ll see that we’re trying to make it work, and when we shake hands and part, they’ll leave us alone.”
Mille nodded. “An excellent plan. We’ll manipulate them back.” She nodded again with a conspiratorial smile.
They danced together for the rest of the party, and August, greatly daring, gave Mille a hug before taking Josefine’s hand and going home. He didn’t ask his daughter if she’d conspired with Arne, and she didn’t volunteer it.
On a cloudless morning in February, when the icy air scarcely stirred in fitful breezes, Arne Larsen went to the stables beside his inn. The stables smelled of clean hay and horses as his son, Poul, groomed their big gray seven-year-old gelding, while the coat of the older horse, a fifteen-year-old roan growing gray about the muzzle, shone with brushing.
“Poul, do you remember when you and Josefine got lost?”
Poul dropped the brush and looked at his father in dismay. “I’m really sorry, Papa. We didn’t —”
Arne waved his hand to stop the apologies. “No, no, that’s quite all right. No harm done. No, I want to go see that house you found. Can you find it again?”
“The one with the spiders? I don’t like spiders.”
“I know. But it’s too cold for spiders now; they’re all dead. And anyway, you won’t have to go in. You just have to take me there. Can you do that?”
At Poul’s reluctant agreement, Arne asked him to saddle the horses — Poul would have been hurt if Arne saddled his own horse — and went inside to put Saffi in charge while he went out for a few hours.
Half an hour later, they drew rein at the long, snowy, overgrown track leading to the abandoned house. Leaving Poul holding the horses, Arne hurried to the house, pausing on the front steps to look around for the spiderwebs his son had described. But there were none, as if they’d been swept away.
After studying what he could see of the roof and windows, Arne mounted the steps and tried the door. The knob turned, and he pushed it open with little trouble … to a point. When it hung up, he put his shoulder to it, forcing it open further with a shriek of wood on wood. He stepped into the doorway and surveyed the entry hall by the light through grimy windows. And the small footprints in the thick dust, leading in and out again.
With a fond smile, Arne followed the tracks in the dust, seeing that a small person — a nine-year-old girl, perhaps — had checked every room. But the furniture and furnishings were long gone, not even traces in the dust. Someone had emptied this house years before.
A good kitchen downstairs, four bedrooms upstairs. Two bathrooms, though of course they didn’t work. A glance outside showed a pump well without a handle and an outhouse situated safely away from the well. Those would have to be checked and cleaned, but appeared satisfactory. Arne returned to his exploration of the house, coughing a little as his footsteps stirred up the dust.
In his operation of the inn, Arne had gained much experience with maintaining an old building. Now, he noted a roof leak here, a sagging beam there, peeling paint everywhere. Still, he thought, the fundamentals of the house were sound. All it needed was a good cleaning, some carpentry, roofing, and painting. With a satisfied nod, he pulled the front door closed and joined Poul to return to the inn.
“You’re staying with us again?” Arne asked Mille, as she and her three children settled themselves around a table. Alfred had found a table by himself in the back, as was his habit.
“This is the best inn in Rønne!” Christoffer announced, and Mille laughed.
“I bow to your extensive experience,” Arne replied with a grave bow, sparking another laugh.
“Yes, we’ll leave with Alfred in the morning, of course.”
“Of course.” Arne turned away to speak to another customer, hiding a small smile. Things were going well. In the four months since the solstice party, Alfred had brought Mille and her children to stay overnight twice, and Mille alone once. She made no pretence of her reason for coming to Rønne: visiting August and Josefine. Likewise, August and Josefine had gone to the Madsen farm for several overnight stays.
That night, Arne went over the books while Saffi and Carryn cleaned the inn. They were doing well, though expenses were high. Used lumber was inexpensive; abandoned buildings all over Rønne — all over Bornholm — were free for the taking. But paint had to be made anew, and it cost. Still, he could make it work. And there were still two months to the summer solstice.
“Welcome, welcome!” Arne waved the guests to the shade under the tent at the summer solstice party. Bees buzzed among fragrant flowers in the garden, birds sang in the trees, and the house’s front door stood open. Poul led tours of the renovated house with its sparse furnishings and only occasionally mentioned spiders.
“Uncle Arne,” Josefine said, “Isn’t this is the house that Poul and I found? What happened —”
Arne put a finger to his lips. “Shh. It’s a secret.”
Her eyes widened in excitement. “A secret! Ooh!” She leaned forward and whispered, “We have a secret too!”
Arne’s smile broadened. “Then don’t tell me. Run along, now.” He watched her run to her father’s side, joining Mille and her little girls.
After the communal supper, August and Mille came to him hand in hand, the four children following. The Madsen contingent and many of August’s closer cousins fell silent and turned to watch.
“Uncle Arne,” August said formally, “I have asked Mille Madsen for her hand in marriage, and she has kindly agreed.” He paused to smile at her. “And since her brothers have confessed that you were the matchmaker all along” — they tried to glare at Arne but couldn’t maintain the feigned anger — “we’d like you to perform the marriage.”
The onlookers cheered, drowning out Arne’s answer. Waving them all to silence, he beamed at the two before him and pointed behind them. “Josefine found this house, and your friends and families — both families — fixed it up. Not for me. For you. This is your wedding present.”
He had not thought the crowd could cheer louder.