At the same time there was also a quivering uneasiness within me. An uneasiness about the choice that might lie ahead of us. Because this was just the kind of thing that would rouse the Tehomic forces. They had only been dormant this long because I had kept a low profile.
But even more than that, I now realized, I felt an uneasiness about how many people were looking at the house right now and thinking similar thoughts. The young female lifestyle bloggers and nouveau riche oil engineers. Interior architects and café founders. Surely there were people willing to trade in their upmarket Canada Goose winter jackets for a cheaper brand like Bergans or Kari Traa in order to afford this house. Or even worse—there might be people who had enough money to buy the house and do any remodeling it might need.
“Why did you sigh?” Bj?rnar asked.
“Lifestyle bloggers,” I said, lifting Alva out of the bike seat. “I bet a lot of them will show up at the open house. Shabby chic, you know.”
“We’ll see,” he replied and took Alva’s hand, “we may not even like it.”
I snorted, while little tingles ran up and down my spine at the sight of the big planter pots of blue and lavender hydrangeas lining the walkway to the front door, and the tiles and chandelier in the hallway that were even more beautiful in real life.
We took off our shoes and walked into the living room, where Alva immediately freed herself from Bj?rnar’s hand and ran over to a bowl of chocolates.
“M&M’S!” she cried excitedly, scooping up a big fistful.
“No, Alva,” I warned, “don’t take the candy! It’s just for decoration!”
“I’ll watch her,” Bj?rnar assured me. “Why don’t you go have a look around?”
I nodded and took a few steps toward the dining room, where the real estate agent was. He was talking to an elderly woman who had made herself right at home at the dining table, while another woman stood in the doorway to the kitchen, practically swooning. I noted with relief that neither of them looked like lifestyle bloggers.
“My daughter won’t be home for a couple of days,” the woman sitting at the table told the real estate agent. “So I wonder if we couldn’t set up a private showing on Wednesday?”
“In principle that would be fine,” the agent said, “but we’ve already received a few offers, so the property may already be sold by the end of the day on Monday.”
My throat constricted and I tugged on Bj?rnar’s sleeve as he walked past with Alva, whose face was covered with chocolate and who was pretty much ready to go home.
“Chocolate is yummy,” a voice mumbled.
I glanced over and saw that it was the swooning woman, talking to Bj?rnar.
“It’s the best,” he replied and lifted Alva so she could touch the chandelier.
The lady smiled lopsidedly and took a swig from a hip flask that she pulled out of an inside pocket.
“Cough medicine,” she explained to me. “I’ve been a little under the weather lately.”
I tried to close my mouth and turned to Bj?rnar.
“Should we go take a look upstairs?”
“More M&M’S,” Alva whined, pulling on his hand.
“You go,” he said. “I’ll be up in a minute.”
The stairs were soft and uneven and bathed in sunlight and led up to a second story that featured three bedrooms the size otherwise found solely in furniture catalogues.
They had done a great job with the renovation. Bj?rnar and I could never have pulled this off. Tasteful wallpaper with birds and stripes, beautiful built-in closets featuring exquisitely made hooks, the original floorboards painted a dark brown, tiny tiles in the bathroom, and a superwide showerhead, the kind I had only ever seen in hotels.
I was standing there admiring it when I heard the stairs creak and Alva’s chocolate-covered face appeared atop Bj?rnar’s shoulders.
“Did you eat all the M&M’S?”
She nodded contentedly. It wasn’t until just then that I noticed how shabby she looked. Boots that hadn’t been cleaned off after a slushy week at preschool and long underwear covered by a well-worn wool sweater and her raincoat. We should have at least put a clean skirt or a pair of pants on her. The way she looked now, she might as well have been in pajamas.
Not that my own outfit was much to brag about. Old baggy pants with a hole in one knee and a faded gray H&M jacket that was missing two buttons. I also hadn’t bothered to wash my hair, just put it up in a limp ponytail.
Shabby minus the chic, that was us.
To be sure, this was also a stroke of genius. It would keep us under the radar.
But I was the only one who knew this.
No wonder the real estate agent hadn’t bothered to greet us.
He was surely disappointed, poor guy. It wasn’t much of a turnout for an open house: a shill standing in for someone who couldn’t come, a wino, and a family of paupers. He was bound to be wondering where all the lifestyle bloggers were. As was I.
“Where’s the door to the attic?” I wondered.
“Maybe here?”
Bj?rnar pulled on a little closet door, which opened onto a narrow staircase.
I lost my breath. A secret entrance! I was right! This was no normal house. Portals to revelations and insights into another world. Anything could happen here. Maybe it was a blessing? Maybe this actually was a house with an even stronger magical shield? An opening to the sun itself?
My heart started pounding again, and I reminded myself that it wasn’t by any means certain that it would become ours. But we were meant to live here, said another, far more powerful voice. This was a gift. Money? We had money! Why else was Bj?rnar working so much? What was the point of being a lawyer if one couldn’t live well?
He stood looking out one of the bedroom windows.
“What a view,” I commented. “Imagine falling asleep to that.”
“These must be the original windows,” he said, poking at the frame. “They’re going to need replacing, all of them. Can you imagine what that’s going to cost?”