Margrét stared at Tóti strangely, then slowly sat back down. ‘Uh, yes. Just the manure to spread over the tún, and then we’ll be making woollen goods for trade.’
The old priest nodded. ‘An industrious family. District Officer Jón, if you could please speak with me first?’
The priest conversed with each family member, one by one, examining their reading skills and ability to recite catechisms. He also asked them questions to ascertain the characters of those they lived with. After all the servants had had their time with the priest, Agnes was summoned. Tóti tried to listen to their conversation, but Kristín, relieved her reading test was over, had collapsed into giggles with Bjarni, and he couldn’t hear anything over their laughter. The priest did not take long with Agnes, but soon gave her a nod.
‘I thank you all for your time. Perhaps I’ll see you at a service soon,’ Reverend Pétur said.
‘Won’t you stay for coffee?’ Lauga asked, curtseying prettily.
‘Thank you, my dear, but I have the rest of the valley to see, and this weather’s only going to get worse.’ He set his hat atop his head and carefully bundled the book back inside his thick coat.
‘I’ll see you out,’ Tóti said, before Lauga could offer.
In the corridor, Tóti asked the priest what he had recorded about Agnes.
‘Why do you want to know?’ the man asked, curious.
‘She’s my charge,’ he said. ‘It is my responsibility to know how she behaves. How well she reads. I am invested in her welfare.’
‘Very well.’ The priest took the ministerial book out of his coat again and flicked to the new pages. ‘You may read it for yourself.’
Tóti brought the book over to a candle bracketed into the wall of the corridor and squinted in its dim light until he made out the words: Agnes Jónsdóttir. A condemned person. Sakapersona. 34 years old.
‘She reads very well,’ the priest offered, as he waited for Tóti to finish.
‘What is this you have written about her character?’ He could hardly make out the words, his eyes swimming in the gloom.
‘Oh, that says blendin, Reverend. Mixed.’
‘And how did you arrive at that answer?’
‘It was the opinion of the District Officer. And his wife.’
‘What was your opinion of Agnes, Reverend?’
The old man tucked the book back into his coat and shrugged. ‘Very well-spoken. Educated, I should think. Surprising, considering her illegitimacy. Well brought up. But when I spoke to the District Officer, he said her behaviour was . . . Unpredictable. He mentioned hysterics.’
‘Agnes is facing a death sentence,’ Tóti said.
‘I’m aware,’ the priest retorted, opening the door. ‘Good day, Reverend Thorvardur. I wish you the best.’
‘And I you,’ Tóti mumbled, as the door slammed in his face.
AGNES JóNSDóTTIR. I NEVER THOUGHT it could be that easy to name yourself. The daughter of Jón Bjarnasson of Brekkukot, not the servant Magnús Magnússon. Let everyone know whose bastard I truly am.
Agnes Jónsdóttir. She sounds like the woman I should have been. A housekeeper in a croft that overlooks the valley, with a husband by her side, and a kip of children to help sing home the sheep at twilight. To teach and frighten with stories of ghosts. To love. She could even be the sister of Sigurlaug and Steinv?r Jónsdóttir. Margrét’s daughter. Born blessed under a marriage. Born into a family that would not be ripped apart by poverty.
Agnes Jónsdóttir would not have been so foolish as to love a man who spent his life opening veins, mouths, legs. A man who was paid to draw blood. She would have been a grandmother. She would have had a host of faces to gather round her bed as she lay dying. She would have been assured of a place in heaven. She would have believed in heaven.
It is almost impossible to believe I was happy at Illugastadir, but I must have been, once. I was happy that first day, when Natan and I stayed in his workshop all afternoon. He showed me the two fox pelts. They were drying inside, the sea air too damp that morning for them to hang with the fish.