The Lost Village(59)

“Birgitta,” she says slowly, turning her eyes back to the crayons. “Who has been here?”

Elsa wants Birgitta to look at her and answer the question. But she can’t. She just mutters to herself, sounds without context or meaning.

It can’t have been Aina. Elsa knows it can’t have been her, for Aina’s defiant, contrary voice is still ringing in her ears, along with those strange, wicked words that she could never have imagined coming from her daughter’s mouth.

“You have no power over me! I’m one of God’s chosen ones. You can’t tell me what to do, and I have better things to do than look after that monster!”

Elsa has never hit one of her children before, has never raised her hand against anyone in anger. Her hands have always been ones that comforted and soothed, that sought to help others.

But her palm is still burning from where it met Aina’s cheek.

And what haunts Elsa now is not the lie, nor Aina’s defiance, nor even the slap that rang through the room.

No—it’s the spark that had flashed in Aina’s beautiful dark eyes as she slowly raised her hand to her cheek, her gaze locked on Elsa’s. A look that resembled triumph.

Elsa feels sick.

Birgitta has started to rock back and forth on the spot again. She moves one foot, places it over the dried-on footprint, and rubs until hardly any of the shape remains, just a brownish patch of dust on the floorboards.

As she does so, through Birgitta’s swaying, straggly curtains of hair, Elsa catches sight of some dark patches at the base of her neck. Patches shaped like fingers.

Far away, like a rumble from the underground, Elsa hears the faint sound of hundreds of people singing in chorus.

Evensong has begun.





NOW



I open the pantry doors and look at the contents. Nothing to eat here, either, just shriveled paper bags of mummified flour and oats, small tins of spices, and glass bottles with coagulated, calcified contents.

“Nothing here, either,” I say to Robert as I close the doors. The hinges creak, but they still do their job. He nods, a furrow appearing between his transparent eyebrows.

This is the fourth house we’ve checked, and I’ve started to give up all hope of finding anything.

Max was the only other one of us, apart from Robert, who took his rucksack with him from the square, and the three protein bars he had in there didn’t go far. By the time darkness started to draw in, we were forced to make a new plan.

I didn’t say much while the others discussed what to do. All of our provisions were in the van that blew, so Emmy said the best solution would be just to do the rounds of the nearest houses and check the pantries. Surely there would be something: some foods don’t go off, and it doesn’t need to be gourmet. So long as we get some nonpoisonous calories in us, it doesn’t matter where they come from.

When the others nodded I sat up and said I could go.

Emmy told Robert to go with me, and he nodded without protest. We’ve been told to contact them every fifteen minutes so they know we’re safe.

I wonder if Robert would ever challenge Emmy; he seems to view her authority as absolute. I wonder what it feels like to have that sort of power over another person. My relationships have never been like that. Either they’re not interested and I’m left pining, or I’m not interested and they get angry; somehow I always end up losing. Pathetic or cold-hearted, nothing in between.

Still, I’m glad I have Robert with me. It’s nice not to be here on my own—not that the others would have let me go alone. They don’t trust me. Knowing that rubs a bit, but at the same time they’re absolutely right: I don’t think we’ll find any food, I just wanted a chance to look for Tone. Dragging Robert around with me is a small price to pay to be able to keep an eye out for her—for a trace, a hint, anything that could tell me where she might be.

“On to the next one, then,” says Robert, and I nod.

When we come back out onto the street, the sun has disappeared completely. All that’s left of daylight is the fiery spectacle playing out above the treetops, but even that will soon fade. We’re standing on the street that runs along the river, and from here most of Silvertj?rn is visible: the teeming roofs, the river that cuts through the center, and the lake, dark and deceitful like a promise.

Robert looks at his chunky black wristwatch.

“It’s been fifteen minutes,” he says. He takes his walkie-talkie out of his belt.

“Robert here,” he says into the microphone. I hear a tinny echo of his words from the speaker in my jeans pocket. “We’re on our way to—Alice, what are you doing?”

I’ve already taken a few steps before I realize what I’m looking at.

That has to be it. No question.

A little yellow house by the river.

It’s a cottage, like all of the others, on the middle of a small patch of land that has long since been overrun by the vegetation jostling along the riverbank. It seems to have held out better than the other houses on the street: the roof hasn’t fallen in, and the door is intact.

A green door.

All of the houses on that street were yellow, but ours was the only one with a green door.

The green paint has faded and started to peel. At one point it must have been a bright emerald green, but years of sun and wind and snow have turned it into a washed-out bottle green that’s peeling away from the grayish wood underneath.