It had felt like such a brave thing to do, walking into Bella’s kitchen to make my demands. When the sickness had passed after our encounter, I had been humming with it for weeks, that sense of power it gave me. Finally, she had given in and crumbled a bit before me; finally, I could make her behave. There would be no more dead children. There would be no more dead men. I had seen to that.
Oh, I knew she ought to hang. No one had grieved sweet Jennie more than me, but then I grieved for that other girl as well: Little Brynhild, with her large eyes and difficult disposition, the aim of our father’s lashings more often than not. That little girl so at odds with the world—I grieved for her as well. All I had ever wanted was for her not to ruin things for herself. Ever since she was little that was all I had wanted, and so I could not bring myself to give her up.
If I did, I betrayed that girl, as dear to me as if she were my own.
I thought that my words would be enough—I chose to believe that my words would be enough, and I told myself that it would not bring Jennie back, even if Bella hanged. All it would do was make us all more miserable, and with three little orphans to care for . . .
There is the law of men, but there is another kind of law as well: the law of blood and kinship. I had not even known before how sacred the latter was to me, and how little I trusted the first. I figured it was better if we could solve this all between ourselves and never tell a living soul. If only Bella stayed her hand, we would be fine. There would be a reckoning on judgment day after all, and she would have to answer for her crimes to a far greater power than the sheriff in La Porte—and all I ever wanted was peace.
There was only one flaw in that brave act of mine: I had not thought of how I was to ensure that she did as I said. For all my blustering words, I could not bring myself to go back there and pretend that nothing was amiss, so I had no way of knowing what she did or not, because I could not be there to watch her. All I could do was trust that she behaved, though I had no reason to nurture such a trust, as she had always been an accomplished liar. She had lied to my face many a time, not least about Jennie and her whereabouts.
I lied, too, in turn, because I did not want my daughter to worry; I told Nora that I had seen the letters from Jennie, and that the girl was fine but terribly busy. I did not realize before it was too late how Bella’s lies had trapped me, too. Because how could I give up my sister then, without admitting that I had known the truth for some time? How could I explain to my husband that I had known that our niece was dead, and never even said a word? I felt much like a villain myself, laboring under the weight of those lies. Perhaps that was why I did not go back to La Porte, even if I knew that I should, for the children’s sake if for nothing else; I did not like who it made me—how Bella’s secret changed me, and so I chose to stay away.
Pretended that nothing was amiss—again.
I worried, though—oh, how I worried, and how I wished that my words were enough to keep her walking a straight and narrow line. Yet when a whole year turned, and I still had not gone back, I was starting to question if I ever would.
I often wondered if there ever was a time where I could have prevented what happened later. If I missed a crucial moment to intercept fate. Then I thought of what had happened in the wake of that dog—the one that chased Little Brynhild up the hill.
It was about a week later that a farmer called Gustav Olavsen knocked on our door at St?rsetgjerdet. He was a poor sort of man—lying and cheating, but he had some land of his own and so no one spoke too loudly about it. His wife was a waif of a woman, often bruised and losing teeth, but no one spoke much of that either. His knocking on the door was hard and rapid—angry sounding. It was only me, Mother, and Little Brynhild at home, and so I went to answer.
The man was red in his face and had not even bothered to take his hat off as he stood before the stone step. His dark beard was unkempt and uncut, reaching halfway down his barrel chest. I did not like his eyes at all; they were hard as pebbles as he squinted at me.
“Is your father home?” he asked me.
I shook my head, unwilling to speak with such an angry man. At first, I thought it was Father who had done something wrong, stolen some liquor or failed to pay for this or that.
“Where is he, then? When can I speak to him?”
I shrugged and made to close the door, but then he moved, quick as a cat, and caught it before I could.
“Let go.” I tried to wrestle the door from the man’s firm grasp, but of course, he was too strong.
“What is this about?” Mother came to my aid, though she could not truly help with the door. She stepped beside me and I gave up, letting the man swing it open. Mother and I stood beside each other in the doorway, as was our habit, hiding the state of our home from strangers’ view. It was no one’s business but our own, said Mother, although I knew it was because she felt ashamed.
“What has he done to have you in such a huff?” Mother crossed her arms over her chest.
“Oh, it’s not about him this time, but that girl of yours,” Olavsen spat. His face was even redder than before. The fists at his sides were clenched.
“Which one?” Mother asked as calm as ever. “We have several, as you might know.”
“The little one.” His nostrils flared as he spoke. “I found her bothering my dog yesterday—throwing rocks. The creature was bound to a post.”
I felt my own cheeks burn hotly when I realized that the man had to be the owner—the one who had laughed when Little Brynhild fled up the hill. My hands made fists of their own.
Mother did not think twice. “Nah,” she said. “Little Brynhild would not do something like that; she cares for all living creatures.”
“Well, that’s what I saw,” he said.
“Perhaps your sight is failing, then.”
“What do you want Father for? Would you have her punished?” I asked.
“As she rightly deserves,” he admitted.
“In front of you, maybe?” I crossed my arms over my chest as well. “I know you like to see little girls suffer.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” His hard gaze eyes met mine.
“She told me how you laughed when your dog chased her. I think the priest would like to hear about that.”
He huffed and spat phlegm down on our doorstep. “Good luck with that,” he said, implying that he did not think the priest would ever side against him—and maybe he was right. It cooled his anger, though, that threat. He did not want a rumor like that to spread.
“Was the dog hurt?” Mother asked.
The man shook his head. “But only because her aim was poor.”