The Lost Village(81)

“How have things been?” Ingrid asks quietly.

It’s still dark outside, and there’s hardly any light on the horizon. It must still be night. Ingrid is no more than a shadow among shadows.

“Fine,” Elsa replies, quietly, so as not to wake the others. “It’s been fine.”

The girl has slept better than either of her own ever did: she woke up and whimpered twice, but went back to sleep when Elsa rocked her.

“Has she fed her?” Ingrid asks, looking at Birgitta’s sleeping form.

Elsa shakes her head.

“I haven’t dared wake her,” she admits.

Elsa feels trapped between the two of them. The little one must surely be starting to feel hungry by now. Elsa has given her a towel dipped in milk from the school canteen to suck on, but she knows that won’t be enough. At the same time, she’s wary about even going near Birgitta, let alone waking her.

Birgitta has slept all through the night, and Elsa can’t deny that she’s afraid of what she will do when she wakes up. How much will she understand?

Elsa can’t make out Ingrid’s face in the darkness, but she sees that she nods.

“No,” says Ingrid. “That I can understand.”

Elsa hears the weight on her own chest reflected in Ingrid’s voice.

Ingrid sits down on the floor next to Elsa’s chair, and looks over at the little sleeping bundle lying a few feet away. They have layered some sheets up to create something of a cot for her. Dagny had rambled on about bringing over an old cot, but Elsa had put her foot down. They can’t do anything that might attract unwanted attention.

“How will we get them to the station?” Ingrid asks.

Elsa shakes her head.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I think all we can do is walk them there as though there’s nothing wrong. It’s not so far. If we go just before the train leaves there’ll be no time for anyone to stop us.”

Ingrid sighs softly. The night makes it sound bigger than it is.

“Will you go with them?” she asks.

“Yes,” says Elsa. “I’ll take them to Stockholm. My daughter lives there.”

“Margareta,” says Ingrid.

Elsa nods, though she doesn’t know if Ingrid can see it.

“And what about Staffan?” Ingrid asks.

“I’ll write to him,” Elsa says. “Once we’ve arrived. When they’re … when we’re safe.”

Far from Silvertj?rn.

Far from Pastor Mattias.

“I don’t understand how this could happen,” Elsa says softly, vulnerable words she would never have let herself utter in the light of day.

“Nor I,” Ingrid replies quietly.

Neither of them mentions the name Elsa knows they are both thinking. Neither of them mentions Aina. Aina, who throbs in Elsa’s chest with every heartbeat. Her beloved, her baby. What sort of mother abandons her own daughter?

The baby starts moving and whimpering again, and Elsa gets to her feet. Her knees are shaky and her neck is stiff; she’s too old to be sleeping on anything that isn’t a bed.

Elsa leans in over the girl, picks her up and rocks her gently, but this time the baby won’t be soothed. Her cries are only getting louder. Elsa is always amazed by infants’ cries. That such a small body can make such a noise.

She tries to calm her, cradles her and hushes her, but the baby won’t stop. If she doesn’t quiet down soon it might draw prying eyes to the school.

Elsa blinks at a sudden light. Ingrid has lit a bare candle in her hand.

“Where’s the rag?” Ingrid asks, looking around.

“We’re out of milk,” Elsa says, nodding at the corner where she left the empty bowl.

“Perhaps she can suck on the rag,” Ingrid suggests, but Elsa shakes her head.

“She’s hungry,” she says. “That won’t help.”

Elsa’s stomach begins to tie in knots. She looks around and gives a start when she sees that Birgitta has woken up. Of course she has; only the dead could sleep through the shrill wails filling the room. She has sat up slightly in the bed, her eyes fixed on the girl.

Little Kristina starts up again with renewed voice, and Elsa makes a decision. She cautiously steps over to Birgitta. Birgitta doesn’t look at her. She’s looking at the baby.

Does she understand who she is? Does she see that she’s her daughter?

Elsa can’t imagine that she does.

But still.

When Elsa reaches the edge of the bed Birgitta does something inconceivable: she holds out her arms. At first Elsa hesitates, but then she places Kristina in Birgitta’s outstretched hands.

Her hold is awkward and uncertain, presumably uncomfortable, and although Elsa is afraid to correct her too much, Birgitta holds the baby gingerly—cautiously—while Elsa adjusts her arms.

When Elsa unbuttons Birgitta’s dress she can see her stiffen, but she lets Elsa continue. Elsa is ready and waiting to sweep Kristina away at the slightest hint of agitation, but Birgitta doesn’t make a sound.

Elsa folds back the front of her dress, exposing a swollen, blue-veined breast. Then, placing her hand under Kristina’s back and heavy head, she lifts her to the nipple.

The baby keeps on crying. By now Elsa can sense how tense Birgitta is, how close she is to breaking point.