Читать книгу The Ice People 28 - Ice and Fire - Margit Sandemo - Страница 8

Chapter 3

Belinda sat on the edge of the bed to catch her breath. She had been at Elistrand now for four days and she had certainly been put to work!

She was really supposed to be a nanny, but it seemed that Tilda needed a lady’s maid as well. And Belinda was only too happy to help.

Belinda made an extra effort to do things as properly as possible. Of course, it was a shame about the beautiful bowl she had accidentally broken, and it was also to be regretted that she had put on the wrong sheets when changing the bedlinen in Mr Abrahamsen’s room, but she had promised never to do it again so they had forgiven her. Herbert Abrahamsen had even been so kind as to give her a conciliatory pat on the cheek as he laughed and said that it seemed she was one of those people who, if she had to make a choice, was always doomed to make the wrong one. Whereupon he had put his arm around her and given her a squeeze, which she hadn’t liked at all for it somehow felt unfair to Signe.

However, last night had been worse. His mother had been out paying a visit, and he had come into the nursery while she sat singing lullabies to Lovise. He had gone over to her by the child’s crib and said that she had a sweet voice, asking her to go on singing a little longer. But just those words had made it difficult for her to continue. She had to force herself and suddenly she couldn’t remember the words, but he had encouraged her, placing his arm around her to console her. But that had just made it all much worse; it was unpleasant and she didn’t know what to do. She had made an excuse about having to fetch some milk for the little girl and then she had waited outside until he left. He had a very stern look on his face.

No, it wasn’t easy to satisfy everyone’s wishes, even though she tried to both think and talk like Signe. For what was Belinda to do when Signe’s very own husband, whom she had most probably been extremely fond of, started to do things like embracing her? In that instance she couldn’t think and talk like Signe, for Signe would have let him do those things and if Belinda did the same that would have upset Signe.

Belinda couldn’t make head or tail of it.

It wasn’t easy dealing with Mrs Tilda, either. It was completely impossible for Belinda to satisfy her. Belinda did everything wrong, and Tilda called her a useless good-for-nothing. Those words were painful to hear, for when one does one’s best and works hard at something and it still isn’t good enough, one feels completely helpless.

There was a knock on the door, and Belinda gave a start.

How fortunate that she hadn’t yet started to undress!

“Come in,” she said with a trembling voice. She almost couldn’t take any more reprimands now.

When she saw who was there she was shocked.

“Mr Abrahamsen, it isn’t proper for you to come in here. One must never receive gentlemen visitors in one’s room. Mother says so herself!”

He gave her a smooth smile. “Don’t worry, Belinda, this is not a ‘visit from a gentleman’. I’m here to discuss Lovise’s future care. And then I would like to talk about my beloved Signe with someone who really knew her.”

Yes, Herbert had indeed figured out how to launch his attack! Belinda’s weak spot was her sister.

And sure enough, Belinda melted at once. Her eyes filled with tears and she didn’t react at all when Herbert sat down next to her on the bed.

“Oh, how I miss her!” she cried.

“So do I, so do I,” he murmured, as Belinda’s tears began to trickle down her face. “She was an outstanding wife. And you, little Belinda, you remind me so much of her.”

That wasn’t true at all – Signe and Belinda were as different as chalk and cheese.

“So I simply have to talk with you,” he said unctuously. “Because having you here is exactly like having Signe here again.”

“Really?” Belinda exclaimed. She couldn’t really follow him. Did he really think she resembled Signe? Signe, who had been so pretty, sparkling and witty?

She couldn’t understand it.

“But Signe was so good at everything,” she objected.

“She certainly was,” Herbert conceded. “She was the finest human being I ever met. She is the one who embroidered this monogram on your bed sheet, did you know that?”

Belinda’s eyes were once again filled with tears. “No! How beautiful!”

Herbert bent over to show it to her and as he did so he placed his arm at her back. And let it remain there so carefully that Belinda didn’t have the heart to push it away.

He chatted eagerly about Signe, and Belinda got caught up in all the memories of her. It was so nice of him to venerate his deceased wife in this way!

Suddenly she noticed that his hand was resting on her bodice. She had been so absorbed in their conversation that she hadn’t registered it until now.

She instinctively pulled back a little.

“Forgive me,” Herbert said immediately. “You see, talking to you feels just like talking to Signe, and I miss her so terribly. As a woman too. I have been so lonely – and I simply forgot that she was not the one sitting here next to me. You resemble her so much. You are both equally attractive ...”

He removed his hand. But his other hand remained on her thigh, as though begging for forgiveness. Now he also emitted a sharp odour – sweat, and something else that Belinda couldn’t define but which made her think of a billy goat!

Unfathomable.

His face, the skin glossy and olive-coloured, was now close to her, and she could clearly see his stubble. Herbert was the kind of man who probably had to shave at least twice a day. His breathing was strained, she thought, and he was eyeing her with a glassy stare.

Belinda felt ill at ease. She had no idea what to do now, and wondering what Signe might have done didn’t help in the least.

But Herbert had great experience with women. Fortunately, he realized that it probably wasn’t wise to go any further this time. He stood up and thanked her for the uplifting conversation, thinking to himself that he was now leaving the girl in a proper state of erotic excitement. She was bound to be disappointed that he was leaving and would therefore be more cooperative next time. The next time his mother was out. Which she often was. She was very fond of coffee parties.

Belinda gave a sigh of relief when he left. His touch hadn’t made her feel anything in particular, but she could still instinctively sense a connection between it and the daydreams that normally excited her during her lonely hours. Never would she dream of entertaining such feelings in the presence of Herbert Abrahamsen. For by doing so she would have gravely betrayed her sister.

But feelings of doubt nagged her. What if Signe were sitting up there in heaven growing sad because of Belinda’s dismissive behaviour towards Herbert’s friendly advances?

She fell on her knees next to her bed and asked the good St George for his help and guidance so that she would do the right thing. For Belinda thought constantly of Signe’s posthumous reputation.

In the following days Belinda worked as hard as a mule to satisfy Mrs Tilda and also to avoid Herbert, while lavishing all the necessary attention and care on little Lovise.

And Belinda was quite capable. Any outsider would have seen that right away. The small staff of servants was actually quite impressed by the way in which the clumsy girl devoted herself to her work. Mrs Tilda, on the other hand, was less impressed. She hid behind doors and in closets and kept an eye on Belinda, and if she discovered that something was wrong she would immediately pounce on it. Belinda had learned to fear the sound of Tilda’s cold voice, her tall, stiff figure dressed in mourning, her pallid complexion and the tinge of grey in her dark hair. Like her son, Mrs Tilda had knitted eyebrows and the same profile, with a bent nose and receding chin, but her eyes were different from his. Where Herbert’s eyes were languishing, hers were expressionless. It was only when her gaze turned towards her beloved son that her eyes took on a warm, almost sentimental glow. Her scrawny hands were always clasped together, resting just over her midriff, and her back was straight.

Belinda had accidentally overheard Tilda make a comment to Herbert, a remark that was clearly loaded with suspicion: “I notice that you’re always in the nursery these days. Watch out that you don’t put any ideas into her head!”

“Who, Lovise?”

“Don’t be stupid! That little cow might think you’re actually interested in her.”

“But of course not, dear Mother, how could you think such a thing?”

Belinda hadn’t intended to listen to their conversation, but Herbert’s response had actually pleased her. Reassured her.

But he was difficult to deal with. He would often come in to chat with her as she was changing the baby, and while he did so his fingers would graze her shoulder blades and move down to her thighs and she would be forced to pretend that she had to go and fetch something in order to escape him.

Now that she realized that he would find an excuse to come into her room when she had finished tending to the baby – to “talk” about Lovise or Signe – she usually went out to escape his visits. She would walk up to the church and return when she believed he had gone to his own chamber.

Once she had seen a shadow ride by in the semi-darkness, which had made her think of St George and the strange night when she and Signe had seen the apparition on the hill.

The apparition that must have caused Signe’s death.

Oh, it was too tragic; she refused to think of that now.

One day, while Belinda was cleaning the room that had once been Signe’s private apartment, she stopped to admire a very beautiful built-in closet-bed. There was something written above the bed, something that that had been etched into the carving.

Belinda traced the letters with her fingers. With some difficulty she managed to decipher the words: “But the greatest thing of all is love.”

“Oh, how beautiful,” she whispered to herself. “How very beautiful! I wonder who used to sleep in here, it looks very old.”

She found a small signature that had been scratched at the very bottom of the bed.

“What does it say?” she murmured. “Villemo Kalebsdatter Elistrand. I wonder who that could have been?”

Then she added, “But whoever you were, Villemo Kalebsdatter, then look down upon me now! I feel so lost in this beautiful house of yours.”

Suddenly she started and turned to look behind her. The room was completely empty, yet still it felt as though someone was there. Had she felt a friendly breath on her cheek?

Belinda remained standing motionless, but of course there was nobody in the room.

Her fingers moved instinctively across the flourishes of the woodwork, where she found a drawer that could barely be discerned amid all the ornamentation. She turned back to the bed and somewhat guiltily pulled out the drawer.

Inside lay a book bound in red leather. It looked quite new. Belinda opened it tentatively. Was it a diary?

“It’s Signe’s,” she cried out in astonishment.

It didn’t reveal much. The first entry had been made on the day of her wedding. Yes, Belinda vaguely recalled Signe receiving a diary as a present from some aunt or other.

She forgot all about time and place as she began to read. It was not that she was in the habit of snooping in other people’s belongings, she just didn’t give it much thought, and it wasn’t long before she was deeply absorbed in it.

The first entries were full of enthusiasm and joy. Herbert was both “handsome and wonderful” and this was followed by numerous exclamation marks.

“Now I am his!” it said. “And how blissful it is. I never dreamed that there was anything so wonderful in the world! Just imagine ... to be the one Herbert has chosen!”

Marital bliss. Household duties. Everything was pure joy.

Later, things were not going so smoothly.

It concerned Tilda, Belinda surmised. Signe made a couple of remarks hinting that there was a dragon in the house, about jealousy and malicious acts performed in secrecy. At first Belinda didn’t understand it at all, and she started to wonder if dragons actually existed. Her dragon-slayer, St George, somehow got mixed up in her thoughts as well, so that she got really confused until she read the words, “The nasty old black dragon Mrs T.A.”. Then Belinda realized what it was all about.

There were other things that weren’t so pleasant to read for someone who had cared for Signe. It became evident that her sister’s great admiration for her handsome husband was gradually starting to dwindle. A girl from the village had made some insinuations. This was just after Signe had, with the greatest joy, written in the diary that she was with child. That joy disappeared abruptly after her encounter with the village girl. No name was mentioned, but Signe wrote about mocking glances and telling insinuations. Belinda didn’t understand it at first, but one of the pages in the diary was completely crumpled and all the ink was blurred. Signe had been crying! It seemed that the strange girl had asked Signe where her husband had been the night before. And on Thursday. And over the weekend. And whether Signe was at all aware of how many women had held him in their embrace and shared moments of pleasure with him?

Belinda sniffled. She had to dry her eyes in order to read the last part, “Today Belinda came. Dearly beloved, sweet little Belinda, she mustn’t know anything! I’ve never really appreciated how precious Belinda is to us. What a loyal soul she is! Oh, why do we always laugh at the ones who do us no harm? We are the ones who are evil. Now I regret the way I always mocked her ...”

“Belinda!”

Mrs Tilda’s sharp voice was coming from the hall.

“Belinda! Where is that girl? Hasn’t she heard that our little angel has awakened? Must I really be the one who has to see to the child?”

Belinda jumped up and stood in confusion, with the book in her hands. Then she quickly put it back in its place and closed the drawer. She hadn’t had a chance to read the last two pages, but that couldn’t be helped. She quickly dried her tears and went out to the hall.

“Have you been in there all this time?” Mrs Tilda asked sharply. “What kind of a nanny are you?”

Belinda didn’t dare show her red-rimmed eyes and went on looking down. “I’m sorry! I don’t think Lovise has been awake very long, I didn’t hear her until now.”

Tilda did not deign to answer, but merely swept down the staircase, her black skirts rustling.

Mrs Tilda was expecting guests that evening. She and Herbert were part of a small circle of people who, with tremulous voices, sang devotional hymns in praise of Our Lord and each other. Mostly the latter. On those occasions they liked to show off little Lovise, which meant Belinda would have a little time off duty. This was a godsend to her. She needed to get out of the house, needed to think things through.

In the dusk, as the voices of the guests blended with the those of the hosts, Belinda would quietly leave the house and walk to the church. Those were her best evenings. The worst ones were those when Mrs Tilda had to go out. In fact they terrified Belinda, because then Herbert would become more bold and enter her room, which she didn’t want – she only wanted to escape him but didn’t know how.

But this evening she had a little breathing space.

Belinda walked very slowly along the road, her heart bleeding for Signe’s bitter fate.

When she reached the cemetery she slipped through the gate, which creaked as though it hadn’t been oiled for many years. It was still light enough for her to be able to discern the graves. It was late September but it didn’t quite feel like autumn yet.

Belinda was, in fact, a little scared of ghosts. But not at this moment. Right now, her only friend in the world lay within the walls of the old cemetery. If, that is, you could call someone who was dead a “friend in the world”.

She went straight to Signe’s grave, which was one of the most recent ones. On the way, she had to pass a few gravestones that were extremely old. It was too late in the day for her to be able to read their inscriptions, but she knew from her previous visit that they belonged to the mysterious Ice People. And that family had many graves in this cemetery.

She shuddered slightly. There were many stories about the Ice People circulating in the parish, that was what Signe had said. About big trolls and horrifying monsters. Nevertheless, the family was apparently popular. Except with Mrs Tilda, who had made a few sour comments about them.

Belinda stopped in front of Signe’s grave, which was situated right next to the wall. She should have brought some flowers with her, as the old ones looked withered.

It was so difficult to talk to Signe today. She couldn’t collect her thoughts, and her heart was breaking. She knelt down on the rustling leaves.

“Signe, dearest Signe,” she whimpered pitifully. “I should have been with you during your last days! You were so lonely. And now ... What am I to do, Signe, won’t you tell me? I am so unhappy and confused, I don’t understand any of what’s going on.”

She heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path next to her. She turned her head and gasped at the sight of the tall figure she saw there.

“St George! Thank you for hearing me in my time of need! I need someone to talk to right now.”

“St George?” the figure repeated. He was very tall and looked frightening with his dark hair, closed face and black clothes.

“Yes, I ...” Oh no, had she managed to make a fool of herself again?

“I’m usually known as Viljar of the Ice People.”

“Yes, of course, forgive me,” she muttered, terrified. “I confused you with someone else.”

“With a saint? You are the sister of young Mrs Signe, are you not?”

“Yes,” she got up and curtsied. “Belinda.”

He nodded. “You were talking to that grave, I noticed. Is this the only place you come to when you are here?”

“Yes. And not only here, in the whole world. I miss my sister terribly. And right now everything’s so complicated. It’s hard to know how she would have liked me to handle it.”

The awe-inspiring figure sat down on the cemetery wall. “What is it that’s so complicated?”

“Everything. I wanted so badly to come here and take care of Signe’s little daughter, and that part is going very well and it seems that Lovise likes me. It’s ... everything else.”

He gestured for her to go and sit next to him. She thanked him for his kindness and sat down.

“Do you also have a dear friend to visit here?” she asked shyly.

“No, not exactly. But I like coming here. It makes me feel as though I’m in contact with my many ancestors who are at rest here.”

“How wonderful,” Belinda whispered, dreamily. “I feel that way, too. With Signe, I mean.”

The man of the Ice People studied her searchingly in the semi-darkness. “Tell me what it is that is so difficult at Elistrand.”

She sighed. “I’m useless. So hopeless. I run around and work so hard but I always end up doing the wrong thing. I can’t blame Mrs Tilda for getting annoyed with me. They are very kind to let me stay there, and I constantly make such a mess of things.

“Didn’t you say it was going well with the child?”

“Yes, but ...”

“And you are her nanny, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but it’s little wonder that Mrs Tilda needs some help around the house, so I am also her chambermaid.”

“No! Really? But that doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No. And why are you speaking in that strange way?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your voice doesn’t sound genuine.”

Belinda became perplexed. “But that’s the way Signe spoke!”

The stern expression on his face softened a little as he grew more sympathetic. “So you thought that if you did everything in the same way as her everyone would love you?”

“Yes, because everyone loved Signe. And I do everything just as she would have done it, and I think like her, but no matter how hard I try it just doesn’t seem to work.”

“No, of course it doesn’t! You shouldn’t be living someone else’s life. You are you. Now I don’t know you, but everybody has something unique and valuable to offer. And that goes for you, too. And it is the finest thing about a person. You shouldn’t just throw it away like that.”

“Yes, but I think it’s so sad that a fine person like Signe should have had to leave the world like that. No, I can’t explain it. I’m a little stupid, you see.”

“I think I know what you mean. And you are absolutely right, you should take the best qualities of a deceased person and pass them on. It’s just that what you’ve taken wasn’t the best of what Signe had to offer. Her voice becomes empty in you. It’s the things that were best about her that you should keep alive. Not her mannerisms and gestures.”

Belinda let out a sob. “I feel so sorry for her. She’s lying there in her cold grave – so young!”

His voice was dry and matter-of-fact. “Signe was fortunate enough to lead a full life. She was loved by everyone and never encountered any hardships. It can often be good to overcome adversity. Those who have a more favourable destiny sometimes have greater difficulty getting through hard times.”

“Oh, but there is something you don’t know, Sir. I found her diary today. And she was very miserable during her last days.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, she wrote that her husband, Herbert Abrahamsen, embraced other women and gave them cakes and things.”

“Cakes?”

“Yes, that’s what it said. A strange woman asked Signe whether she knew how many other woman had exchanged pleasures with him.”

At first Viljar stared at her in disbelief. Then he had to turn his head away for a second. “Yes, you may be right that Signe was unhappy. She probably had problems with her mother-in-law, too?”

“Oh yes. At first I couldn’t grasp what she meant, because she wrote about dragons and things like that, which made me think of real dragons and St George and everything, but then I understood that it was ... yes, you-know-who.”

“What did you do with the diary?”

“I put it back where I found it. In a secret drawer. Unfortunately, I didn’t get a chance to read the last two pages.”

He remained silent for a moment. His black hair fluttered in the wind. “Are you cold?”

“No, not at all, but you are so kind to ask.”

Viljar sighed at such humility. “You shouldn’t show that diary to anyone.”

“No, of course not! Or they may be angry with Signe for writing such things!”

“Signe will be fine,” he murmured. “But what about you? Are they kind to you?”

“Oh, yes, they’re all very kind, it’s just that I do so many stupid things. But I’ve become so confused now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just don’t know how Signe would have felt. About her husband, that is. He ... he ...”

“Yes?”

“He ... seems to like touching me. Grabbing me. And even though I don’t want to hurt Signe I still don’t like it. I mean, he was Signe’s husband and it’s so horrible that I run away every time I see him approaching me. Because I don’t like it and at the same time I can’t help thinking that Signe wouldn’t have liked his touching me either, or ... No, I can’t make head or tail of it.”

“You must follow your inner voice, Belinda, which sounds very sensible to me. You must run, dear child, as far away as possible!”

Belinda brightened up. “Do you mean that? Oh, that’s good! That’s just what I thought, because it doesn’t seem that Signe liked him embracing other women and that sort of thing.”

“And that sort of thing” was what Belinda said when she lacked the vocabulary for something.

It had grown darker now, but she could still make out Viljar’s features in the dusk. They were sharp and cold but she wasn’t afraid. How strange, she thought, Herbert Abrahamsen has much softer features but they frighten me. (Forgive me, Signe!)

“But what about you?” she asked childishly. “They say you’re a little strange but you don’t seem so at all.”

He looked at her with a small smile. “I ... am ... a little ... different. A bit of an outsider. Just like you.”

She felt practically euphoric when she heard him comparing himself with her. Her whole face lit up with a blissful smile.

“In what way are you an outsider?” she asked.

Viljar of the Ice People looked across the darkened plain.

“I don’t belong,” he said. “I don’t feel at home at Graastensholm. And not at Linden Avenue, either. I feel much more at home with Tengel the Good and his Silje.”

“Who are they?”

Her naive voice wakened him from the thoughts in which he had become absorbed. “Oh, they died a long time ago. They are resting over there in that grave with the big headstone.”

Belinda looked over to it and suddenly realized how dark it had grown. She would have to hurry home. Did she dare to, in this darkness?

And then there was the fact that she didn’t want to. Not yet. She wanted to prolong this – to her – unfamiliar experience of human company as long as possible.

“Do you feel like telling me about your difficulties?” she asked in a childish, trusting tone of voice.

He started. “You? Why should I, when I can’t even confide in my own, understanding parents and grandparents?”

Belinda lowered her head in humility and shame. “No, of course. Forgive me!”

The tall stranger, who most resembled a tragic knight of the Middle Ages, grew embarrassed.

“No, I am the one who should ask for forgiveness. Who else should I confide in if not you, you lonely little creature who so desperately desires a friend?”

He leaned towards her and took her hand. His hand was large and surprisingly warm, and Belinda wasn’t afraid in the least. Perhaps she could be a moral support to him in whatever trial it was he was facing.

“You see, Belinda, I can’t tell them how I feel at home because it will only hurt them if I do. I know this is going to sound strange and frightening to you, but ... the truth is that Graastensholm is haunted and my grandmother and grandfather know nothing about it.”

Her hand twitched a little. Other than that, nothing about her revealed her fear or her wish not to listen to the rest. Ghosts! Help!

“Is it really?”

“Yes, unfortunately. But I don’t mean to scare you unnecessarily. That’s the last thing I want to do.”

She was speechless, yet very much aware that her hand was still resting in his. She anxiously tried to look over at Graastensholm, but it was too dark now.

“But what is haunting it?”

He seemed ill at ease. “It’s a woman,” he said reluctantly. “A young woman. She’s always standing behind the door to my room and looking at me. She is bluish and pale and looks ill. As though she drowned.”

Belinda crept a little closer as though to comfort him. Without thinking she began to use the informal “you” when addressing him. “Doesn’t that scare you?”

“When I was a child I would get very scared and refuse to go to Graastensholm. I would never sleep over there. And I couldn’t tell anyone. Least of all Grandmother and Grandfather.”

“No, of course not. That couldn’t have been easy.”

“It wasn’t. They claimed that I was sulky and introverted and I couldn’t defend myself. I thought of nothing but ghosts twenty-four hours a day. It practically made me ill.”

Belinda squeezed his hand sympathetically. “What about now? Now that you’re grown-up? Now that you live there. Is that woman still there?”

“Yes! I fought a huge battle with myself because I decided I wanted to move up there. Grandfather needs help, and one day I will have to take over the farm. But I’m not afraid any more. She doesn’t do anything, she just stands there with her big, round eyes.”

Belinda shuddered. “No wonder you’ve become a bit odd,” she said, more honest than polite. “I would too if it were me.”

He smiled bitterly. “Well, now that I’m older I’ve had some other strange ideas. That have nothing to do with ghosts. But I still can’t tell my family about them. It would hurt them terribly, and anyway, I’m not allowed to tell anyone.”

“Who won’t allow it?”

“Other ... people. But it’s grown dark now, and cold. You had better get home!”

She got up reluctantly. She realized that it had actually grown cold.

“People say you are always out riding so much. Is that because you don’t want to be where the ghosts are?”

“It used to be. Back then I would ride as though the devil were at my heels. Now I ride for other reasons.”

“Oh,” she said quietly.

“No, it’s not to meet girls. It’s to meet other people. The ones I was just talking about.”

That was good to hear.

They walked out of the cemetery to where his horse was standing. He remained standing next to it. “You know,” he said, “I haven’t spoken so much for ages!”

She laughed joyfully. “And I’ve never felt so ... intelligent!”

“That’s because you were yourself for a moment. That’s the best way to be. I will see you home, you shouldn’t be out alone at this time of day.”

He led his horse as he chatted with her about her childhood and her hard life at Elistrand.

Belinda sighed. “I’m worried about tomorrow night. Mrs Tilda will be going out then, which means Mr Abrahamsen is bound to be difficult. He’ll come up to the nursery and ... ugh, no!”

Viljar of the Ice People stopped. She couldn’t see his face but she could hear his voice.

“That mustn’t happen,” he said sharply. “I won’t be at home tomorrow but I’ll have a word with my grandmother, Vinga. I’ll ask her to send you an invitation to come up to Graastensholm.”

“But I can’t leave Lovise, that won’t do.”

“You can take the child with you! And I’ll ask my grandmother to make sure you don’t leave until Mrs Tilda has returned.”

“But ... what about the ghosts?”

“Do you intend to go up to my room?”

“No, of course not, how stupid of me. Oh, if only I could get away from here. I’m so scared!”

“Believe me, it will all work out, for tomorrow anyway. Here we are at the gate of Elistrand. I think you can manage from here. Good night, my friend. You can always turn to me should you find yourself in a difficult situation.”

She managed to stammer a “Goodnight” and then he was gone. He had called her his “friend”.

Not until then did she recall that he was the one who had caused Signe’s death. But now that she thought about it she couldn’t fathom how the sight of him on the hillside, which had so frightened her and Signe, could have been interpreted as a bad omen.

Not him! Not the only person in the world who perceived her as his equal.