‘We weren’t.’ Agnes looked up at Margrét. ‘Why haven’t you asked me about the murders?’
The question took Margrét by surprise. ‘I thought that was between you and the Reverend.’
Agnes shook her head.
Margrét’s mouth had gone dry. She looked across to where her husband lay. He was snoring. ‘Would you like to come to the kitchen with me?’ she asked. ‘I need to warm my bones or I’ll be dead by morning.’
Agnes sat on a stool brought from the dairy, and watched as Margrét broke open the embers in the hearth, prising flames from them with pieces of dried dung. She coughed in the smoke and wiped her eyes.
‘Are you thirsty?’
Agnes nodded, and Margrét set a small pot of milk on the hook. She sat down on the stool next to Agnes and together they watched the flames begin to crowd the kindling.
‘My mother would never let the hearth die in her home,’ Margrét said. She felt Agnes turn to look at her, but didn’t meet her gaze. ‘She believed that as long as a light burned in the house, the Devil couldn’t get in. Not even during the witching hour.’
Agnes was quiet. ‘What do you believe?’ she asked eventually.
Margrét extended her hands towards the flames. ‘I think a fire is a useful thing to keep a body warm,’ she said.
Agnes nodded. The fire crackled and flared in front of them. ‘When I worked at Gafl, the fire went out during winter. It was my fault. We were snowed in and the children were starving, and I was so busy trying to get the youngest to take a little whey from a rag that I forgot to check the kitchen. We went three days without a light, without a fire, before the weather cleared and we could get help from the next farm. I thought our neighbours would find us dead and blue in our beds.’
‘It happens,’ Margrét conceded. ‘There’s more than one way a body can die.’
The two women fell silent. The milk began to tremble, and Margrét got up to pour it off. She handed a steaming cup to Agnes and sat down again.
‘Your family is lucky to have enough supplies,’ Agnes said.
‘We had a little extra money this year,’ Margrét replied. ‘District Commissioner Bl?ndal has given us some compensation.’ She regretted her words as soon as she spoke, but Agnes did not react.
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ she said eventually.
‘Not much, mind you,’ Margrét added.
‘No, I’m not worth much,’ Agnes remarked bitterly. Margrét glanced at her. She sipped her milk, feeling the hot liquid fill her stomach and begin to spread its warmth through her body.
‘The Reverend has not come recently,’ Margrét said, changing the subject.
‘No.’ Agnes’s face was still puffy from sleep, and the older woman suddenly felt an impulse to put an arm around her. It is because she looks like a child, Margrét thought. She tightened her hands about her cup.
‘I didn’t mean to wake you before,’ Agnes said.
Margrét shrugged. ‘I often wake at night. When my girls were small I used to wake to check that they were still breathing.’
‘Is that why you’re awake now?’
Margrét looked at Agnes sharply. ‘No. That’s not it at all.’
‘I’m sorry you have been afraid for them,’ Agnes said. ‘With me here, I mean.’
‘A mother is always afraid for her children,’ Margrét said.
‘I’ve never been a mother.’
‘No, but you have one.’
Agnes shook her head. ‘My mother left me when I was small. I haven’t had a mother since.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Margrét said eventually. ‘Wherever she is, she thinks of you.’
‘I don’t think so.’
Margrét paused. ‘A mother always thinks of her children,’ she repeated. ‘Your mother, Fridrik’s mother, Sigga’s mother. All mothers.’
‘Sigga’s mother is dead,’ Agnes said bluntly. ‘And Fridrik’s mother is going to be sent to Copenhagen.’
‘Why?’
Agnes glanced cautiously at Margrét. ‘Thórbj?rg had an inkling of what Fridrik planned. She knew about some sheep Fridrik stole. She lied to the courtroom.’