Was she what Thor was aiming for? Aven dropped to a crouch behind the table. She pulled Grete into her lap. The dog whined in confusion, trembling from nose to tail.
Aven heard a thrashing from Thor. Then a whimper that could have only been his own. A sound so raw and broken that she clutched Grete tighter for fear the dog would scamper after him.
“Av—”
Tears stung her eyes at the sound of him trying to say her name. Aven blinked as her vision blurred.
Jorgan commanded them to keep their grips. The clamor shook the upper floor like a beating drum, then all at once everything went quiet. All save the panting breaths of three men.
First came Haakon’s voice. “He’s out cold.”
“Let’s move him before he comes to.” Jorgan sounded wrung out.
Fearing she was going to be sick, Aven sank against the table leg. She tried to heave in breaths, but perhaps that was her problem—they were coming too fast. She struggled to slow them even as the kitchen filled with noise again. This time of that which needed to be done immediately. Cora poured salt into a bowl and rushed for the kettle. Ida drew near to Aven and pressed a hand to her forehead. Aven closed her eyes again.
With Ida’s help Aven managed to stand. “I need air,” she whispered.
Down the stairs she went. Past the cider barn. All the way around it until she reached the back end. Tall, dry weeds swished as she sank onto a rusted box against the building.
Dropping her face in her hands, her shoulders shook. A sob rose so strong that air was lost to her. Aven heaved in a breath as tears pooled and fell. Because she could still see Thor’s struggle . . . and because she could still see Benn’s.
The sun was near to setting that day, two years ago. The flat all but golden in the glory of the sunset that streamed in through the windows. Benn had been sitting at the table of their rented room, his profile lit by that soft light. The pale hue of his hair melded to amber and his pensive brow shadowed above his blond lashes. He’d been lost in thought—and she simply watched him. For it had been the calm after the storm. One week after she’d pleaded yet again for him to give up the bottle.
He’d tried—for her sake, he’d tried. Making it into the third day. But by then she’d had to lock herself in the closet due to his panic. A panic taking over that bugs were crawling on them both. He slapped at his skin, at her own. Scratching at nothing. Forcing her to hide away.
Aven had pinned the closet door closed with the broom and tried to stay as still and quiet as possible. Praying that Benn would forget she was there. That their landlord, Farfar ?berg, would hear the ruckus and come to her aid.
Somewhere in the night, Benn had found a bottle of Akvavit. He’d finished the spiced liquor off by sunrise. Aven crawled out to find him in a stupor.
So it was four days later, the day of that vivid sunset, that he’d finally turned his head to her and, with a rare smile, asked what she thought about fish for supper. Mused aloud that the market would be open for a few minutes yet. Another bottle of Akvavit was in his grasp, turning slowly in his thick fingers.
He’d been a handsome man. Thirty-one to her nineteen that summer. He had a stoic kind of appeal. Skin gently weathered from hours spent near the docks. Golden hair thick and cropped short. Tidy most days, save when he was lost in thought and prone to tugging it.
When he gave her a second smile, flashing that matchless dimple, Aven had fetched a basket and a krone. Only two had lined the money box since his pub debts had emptied it. She’d stayed up many a night stitching seams in dim light to earn the two coins they had. Lacking powder to cover the bruises on her arms that his panic had borne, she draped a shawl about her shoulders.
She left the flat—that, the last she would see him alive. That smile. The light on his skin. The memory of it was all she had to hold on to as she turned away from the shadows of a life no more. Of a marriage no more due to his choice and the length of a rope.
For months after she was haunted by the sound of it. How could something so still as a taut rope creak yet? ’Twas the breeze from the open window, she knew. He’d opened it after she left because the curtains were spilling in and out as the wind shifted, and he was there—his life no more.
There she had fallen, her basket spilling of its contents, and there her landlord had knelt beside her, urging her to leave the room.
Farfar ?berg had moved a cot into his storage closet when fear hindered Aven from returning to the flat in the hours and days to follow. He brought her blankets and read to her by the light of a costly candle. Days upon days wore on, and she didn’t move from the bakery. Didn’t speak.
Until two weeks after the funeral, when Farfar ?berg had announced a letter for her. A message written in Dorothe’s hand. One urging her and Benn to come to America. That they would be welcomed to the farm and that there was much work to be had for Benn. After forcing herself to pen news of Benn’s death, Aven had tucked Dorothe’s letter beneath her pillow.
Months later, Farfar ?berg slipped a twenty kroner in the same spot. How he’d obtained it, he wouldn’t relay. But it was hers, he insisted, when he pushed it back into her hand with his gnarled, wrinkled fingers.
Aven held the valuable coin, touching the imprint of the coat of arms stamped into the copper-nickel, repeating the words she’d memorized from Dorothe’s letter.
“The Lord will also be a refuge for the oppressed. A refuge in times of trouble.”
’Twas nearly a year later when she finally penned a response to Dorothe’s bidding.
That, yes. To the Norgaard farm she would come.
SIXTEEN
Aven awoke, vaguely remembering how she’d gotten into bed. A quilt covered her, and a nightgown pressed soft and warm beneath that. She blinked up at the ceiling. By the brightness of the room, it had to be late morning. Her second morning abed. She pushed herself up against the pillows. She knew only because Cora and Ida had tiptoed in and out many a time to check on her.
Had she truly slept this long?
Managing to sit forward, Aven rubbed at her face. ’Twas as clean as her nightgown. All notion of salty tears wiped away. They’d taken good care of her indeed.
It had been Haakon who had found her beside the cider barn. That she remembered, but everything else was a blur as exhaustion had taken over. Noticing a sweet smell, Aven looked to the nightstand where a jar spilled forth with clippings of Cora’s porch flower. Honeysuckle. Aven smiled gently. Seeing a plum beside it, she took it and sniffed the smooth purple flesh, but needing to rise, she set it back down.
When her bare feet hit the floor, she pushed herself to a stand, only to feel so light-headed she had to sit again. Perhaps go a little slower. She picked up the plum and took a few slow bites. When had she eaten last? Or—prior to this—slept? Had she been forgetting to do such things?
Lacking the strength for anything but the simplest of tasks, she reached for her shoes. Aven buttoned them up, for she’d have no luck with them once her corset was on. She fetched that and then a blouse and skirt. As soon as she was dressed, she headed down. The house was unusually quiet. In the kitchen, she set about fixing a cup of tea, taking care to add plenty of cream and sugar. Alongside steamy sips, she nibbled a few of the crackers and a slice of hard cheese.
Jorgan carried boards down from the attic. His own steps were slow, and she couldn’t begin to imagine how this had taxed him in both body and spirit. Ida was nowhere to be found, and upon inquiring, Jorgan said she was napping. ’Twas as if this house were healing after a great battle—one she hoped would allow it to heal even stronger than before.
A battle, she prayed, that had been won.
“How is Thor?”
Jorgan rubbed at his shoulder that had to be hurting. “He’s restin’ well. Through the worst of it now.”