Tóti blushed. ‘She requested me.’
‘Well, if there’s anything worth knowing about her character it will be in the ministerial book.’ Reverend Pétur carefully turned the yellow pages of scrawled handwriting. ‘Here she is. 1795. Born to an Ingveldur Rafnsdóttir and Magnús Magnússon at the farm of Flaga. Unmarried. Illegitimate child. Born October 27th, and named the next day. What else did you want to know?’
‘Her parents were unmarried?’
‘That’s what’s written here. Says “the father lives at Stóridalur. Nothing else noteworthy.” Now, what else do you want? Shall we look up her confirmation? It’s in here. District Commissioner Bl?ndal had me write out the details for him a few months ago.’ The priest sniffed and pushed his glasses back up his nose. ‘Here’s the notice. You can read it for yourself.’ He stepped out of the way to let Tóti lean closer to the page.
‘The 22nd of May, 1809,’ read Tóti, aloud. ‘Confirmed at fourteen with . . .’ He paused to count. ‘Five others. But she would have been thirteen.’
‘What’s that?’ The priest turned from where he had been looking out the window.
‘It says she was fourteen. But in May she would have been thirteen.’
The priest shrugged. ‘Thirteen, fourteen. What does it matter?’
Tóti shook his head. ‘Nothing. Here, what does this say?’
The priest leaned over the book. Tóti caught a whiff of his breath. It smelt of brandy and fish.
‘Let’s see here. Three of these children – Grímur, Sveinbj?rn and Agnes – have learnt all of the Kverie. Then, it goes on. You know, the usual comments.’
‘She did well?’
‘Says she had “an excellent intellect, and strong knowledge and understanding of Christianity”. Shame she didn’t end up following its teachings.’
Tóti ignored the last comment. ‘An excellent intellect,’ he repeated.
‘That’s what it says. Now, Reverend Thorvardur. Would you like to keep us out here in the cold looking up family trees for a while longer, or shall we return to Haukur’s pretty little wife for some breakfast victuals and coffee, if any can be found?’
‘REVEREND TóTI!’ MARGRéT OPENED THE door not three seconds after the young man had rapped smartly on its surface. ‘Nice of you to visit. We thought you might have gone back south. Come in.’ She coughed and pushed the door open wider, and Tóti noticed that she was balancing a heavy sack on her hip.
‘Here,’ he offered, ‘let me take that for you.’
‘Don’t fuss, don’t fuss,’ Margrét croaked, beckoning him down the corridor. ‘I’m perfectly capable. The workhands have returned from Reykjavík.’ She turned around to him with a thin smile.
‘I see,’ Tóti replied. ‘From the merchants.’
Margrét nodded. ‘Not too bad. No weevils in the flour, not like last year. Salt, and sugar, too.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘You’ve coffee?’ Tóti was surprised.
‘We sold all the woollen stuffs and some cured meat. Jón’s out sharpening the scythes for harvest. Care for ten drops?’ She directed him into the badstofa and pulled the curtain aside for him to step into the parlour. ‘Wait here,’ she said, hobbling out, the sack still on her hip.
Tóti sat down on the chair and began tracing his fingers along the grain in the wood of the table. He could hear Margrét break into a fit of coughing in the kitchen.
‘Reverend Tóti?’ a voice murmured from the other side of the curtain. Tóti got up and gingerly tugged the curtain across. Agnes peered around the gap and gave him a nod.
‘Agnes. How are you?’
‘I’m sorry. I just needed to get . . .’ She gestured towards a spool of wool that lay on the other chair in the room. Tóti stepped aside and lifted the curtain for her to enter.
‘Stay, please,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to see you.’
Agnes picked up the spool. ‘Margrét has asked me to –’