Aven stirred glistening sugar into the dark berries. ’Twas with thankful hands that she worked. For both the bounty and their generosity in giving her a place to be at home.
Using a butter knife, she cut a delicate lattice top. Two pans came next, and she assembled both pies with great care. A few snippets of dough remained, so Aven cut them into dainty leaves and twisted vines. She layered the cutouts into place, then brushed the tops with a beaten egg. Into the oven the pans went. If Haakon and Jorgan were successful, fried fish would be on the menu for dinner, so she stuck potatoes onto the lowest rack to roast.
Her own legs weary, Aven headed upstairs, intent on tending to a project she could settle in for. She pulled her mourning gown from the wardrobe and sat on the bed where she spread out the heavy skirt. It looked as wilted and tired as she had felt upon her climb up this mountain. Which made it all the more gratifying to lift Dorothe’s sewing shears and snip through the lightweight wool.
Aven trimmed a large portion from the bottom, then much of each sleeve. Even this simple task reminded her of the kind Norwegian woman. While her letters spanning the sea had been delicately worded, they had been meaningful all the same. Of those memories, the richest were the scriptures Dorothe would pen.
Though raised Catholic as a child, Aven had attended a Protestant church upon her marriage to Benn, and her heart found a home there. The church the brothers attended seemed of a similar make. She was eager to understand more of God’s Word in this wilderness. To learn more of grace and salvation as well as devoting one’s life to the good Christ. She’d cherished beloved scriptures and Bible stories as a girl, and now she trusted that God had her on a path that would further shape her.
Aven plunged a threaded needle into the dusky fabric. Along one hem she worked, using a running stitch and pulling pins here and there. Before long, a tangy sweetness warmed the air from the pies that had to be bubbling now. Aven took up the gown and sewing basket, then started for the stairs. To work nearer the oven would be wise. ’Twould do no good to become lost in another task and allow her efforts to burn.
So quick she went down that she nearly missed sight of Thor at the table near the stairs in the great room. Back hunched, he pored over one of his books. Not wanting to interrupt him, Aven set her sewing materials down, then stepped into the kitchen. She grabbed a quilted pad and lowered the oven door. Heat wafted out, as did the aroma of melted butter. The lattice tops had darkened to a golden brown, so she slid out the pans and set them on the kitchen table to cool.
Aven gently fingered one of the leaf cuttings. The dough was baked to a honey-hued sheen. The vines twisting around were just as lovely. Perhaps a bit ornate, but that was the result of living over the bakery in Norway, having spent many a lonely night helping Farfar ?berg roll and cut dough just so they would each have someone to talk to. Musing that this handiwork would make the grandfatherly man proud, Aven felt a tickle of homesickness in her chest. His wrinkled face came to mind, and she recalled the way it always brightened whenever she mastered a new technique or surprised him with methods of her own invention.
Aven peeked into the great room and thought a little less of Farfar ?berg at the sight of Thor sitting there. Her sewing basket still rested near him. Should she take it elsewhere? She didn’t wish to, so with a small grip of courage she walked over. Perhaps they could keep company until the others returned.
His book sat flat to the table, and the thumb he held atop the page slid along as he read. Beside him on the bench was an open jar of cider. He gave her the smallest of glances as she settled onto the bench opposite him.
Aven pulled the beginnings of the swimming costume into her lap, then reached for a spool of black thread. A snip of the scissors and she gave the thread a little lick before pushing it through the eye of the needle. Though the book was upside down to her, it was clearly in Norwegian. She tipped her head to the side. Her effort to decipher the title at the top of the open page was no use, so faded was the text.
Thor shifted on the bench. His shoe bumped her own, and he slid his feet away. As if noticing where her focus had landed, he used his thumb as a placeholder, then angled the cover toward her.
Aven squinted at the title. Verdens Gr?de. Something to do with giants. “Are you enjoying it?”
Palm down, he tipped his hand from side to side as if to say somewhat. Thor pulled his book away, flipped it open once more, and went back to reading. After a few lines, his gaze strayed to her.
Aven gave a friendly smile as she reached for the tin of pins.
His breathing was soft as he continued to read. Boots shuffling so often, she had to work not to smile again. His feet shifted once more, but this time he cleared his throat. Was he nervous? Perhaps she was sitting too close. With the table between them, it was surely proper. Aven glimpsed his face, wishing for a hint of his thoughts.
Her study of him was cut short when she pricked her finger on the next stitch. She winced and stuck the pad against her mouth. She’d do well to be watching what she was doing. Thor lifted his head, looking concerned.
Finger throbbing, Aven shook her hand. “ ’Twas just a prick.”
He nudged up the lid of the sewing basket, reached inside, and pulled out a thimble. He set it on the table in front of her.
“Aye, that would be helpful as well.” She slid it on and the metal cap fit loosely. With his attention still upon her, she spoke in hopes of bringing some comfort to his newfound situation. “I’m sorry about what Haakon did. About the pairing off of the dance.”
Running the back of his knuckles against his beard, Thor made no response.
“If it’s dancing that worries you, I could show you how—”
He shook his head and reached for his jar. A gulp disrupted the thin ring of white foam atop the brew.
“Just the basic steps. They truly aren’t so hard.”
Looking frustrated, he reached into his pocket and fetched his notebook. Next he pulled out the stubby pencil. Hard for me.
“Of course.” Aven hoped he knew she meant it. “And reasonably so.”
He seemed to appreciate that. When he pushed the notebook aside and returned to his reading, she focused on her stitches. It was a struggle not to peer back up at him. She put all her effort into making an even hem, hardly noticing him place the notebook near. A new line of text had been added.
I teach you swim.
“Me?” She pointed to herself. “I don’t think I could learn.”
In his block script he wrote, Not so hard. He touched the word swim again.
When she braved a glance, his eyes were smiling. That was fair. It was unnerving the way his gaze immediately focused on her mouth when she started to speak. “You teach me to swim and I will teach you to dance.”
With a quick shake of his head, he leaned back against the wall and folded his arms. The wood creaked against his strength. He studied her for such a long minute that she was further unsettled. Finally, he wrote something more. No dance. No swim. We fair? His eyebrows tipped up in question.
He was releasing her, then? To her surprise, disappointment rushed her. Aven glanced around the room. First to the wall of windows where noon cast its glow, then to the fireplace that rested empty on this summer’s day, then to the man across from her who was watching her as if her next words would mean much to him.
“How . . . how do I say please?” She held both hands out for him to know what she meant.
Thor pressed one of his own flat to his chest and moved it in a small circle.
Aven mimicked the motion, then pointed back to the word swim. “You will still teach me? Please?” The thought of him steadying her in the water was a perplexing one. But she trusted she would be safe.
Though his eyes widened, he nodded.
“Thank you.”