Thor watched from the porch as Ida led Aven into the great room. He stepped inside and followed just close enough to see the way the young redhead skirted around the faded sofa, then an end table laden with books. Her feet slowing, she stared up at the massive antlers above the fireplace. Eyes wide, she lowered them to the firewood flanking the brick hearth on both sides.
Though the logs were neatly stacked, the curtains that had once framed the windows just above were no more—having been used to make clothing during the war. Her attention skimmed to the guns that rested on a side table, then to the boxes of ammunition slung open, freshly rummaged through. His own doing there.
She peered back at him as if knowing all along where he was. It was the same wary look she kept sending his way.
Why? He wasn’t going to touch her. And he certainly didn’t bite.
Aven’s black skirts swayed like a bell as she trailed Ida up the stairs, and that slip of a waistline looked like it needed a month of meals.
Thor had meant to head upstairs himself, but best not to follow too closely. His work in the orchards was finished for the day. The buckets all moved, and with Jorgan’s help, he’d hired their extra hands for the coming harvest. Thor had selected three. All of them Negro youths who had been his hardest workers the autumn before. Certain neighbors would be none too pleased with that, which meant there’d be uninvited company soon. Another warning.
With that in mind, Thor went back to his work of cleaning the guns. He lifted a rifle from the side table, closed and locked it. Raising the rifle to eye level, he squinted, centering the bead sight on a pine board in the far wall. He lowered the gun, blew at a few specks of dust, then realigned the sight on the small knot. Satisfied, he set it down.
As if of its own accord, his hand reached for the quart jar sitting there. It was half-filled with the best brew in the county, as always. Already he’d consumed enough to sustain himself until his morning whiskey, but Thor drank a few strong gulps, then set the jar aside, certain he’d be reaching for it again before nightfall. With their guest here, he needed all the liquid courage he could get.
The burnt end of a match went sailing past him, and he glanced back to see his older brother wanting his attention. Jorgan puffed from a freshly lit pipe, then used it to point up the stairs where their new houseguest had gone. Last, and with a sober sincerity, Jorgan made the hand sign for beautiful, fanning an open hand downward in front of his face.
Thor turned away. He didn’t need to be reminded. Sliding the lid on his jar of cider, he twisted it into place.
Jorgan stomped for his attention again. At the rattle of floorboards, Thor shot a glare at his brother who spoke words Thor could read by sight but never hear. “You know why Dorothe had her come.”
Thor closed the box of ammunition, his gaze still on the man who, at thirty-two, was four years his senior.
“Because you never venture out.” Never leave, Jorgan added. Dangling his pipe from his lips freed him to form the last two words with his hands.
I leave, Thor signed back. He held up his thumb and two fingers for three. He’d gone to church on Sunday and twice that week to the pond for a bath. He declared as much.
Jorgan chuckled. Thor saw it in the flash of a smirk and the quick jolt of his chest.
When Jorgan spoke again, Thor couldn’t understand. He pointed to his brother’s pipe and Jorgan pulled it free.
“You keep to yourself at church,” Jorgan said more clearly. He glanced over his shoulder at what had to be a sound. As all those in this house knew to do, Jorgan didn’t speak again until Thor could see his moving lips. Harder with Jorgan, whose beard needed trimming. “And there’s no women at the pond.”
Thor rolled his eyes, and though he tried to exude calm, the way Aven was braided into this conversation alongside him was unnerving. Ida strode down the stairs, seconding Jorgan’s declaration about women with a dramatic nod as she fetched the broom. Fresh sheets lay folded over her arm, and her limp was more pronounced in the evening, as usual.
Thor released his breath in a huff. Little eavesdropper. He jabbed the tip of his finger in her direction, and having no hand sign for the word, he had to fingerspell. M-E-D-D-L-E-S-O-M-E. Irritation moved his hand so fast the letters blurred.
Ida just smiled. Outnumbered, Thor plucked up his jar and headed for the stairs. Two at a time he took them, then stepped down the hallway. Of the four doors there, he strode past Jorgan’s room first, then kept his head down as he passed the room where Aven would have been placed.
There was a bed in there, but last he saw, it had been buried under a mountain of furs as well as two baskets of old canning lids. Judging by the way the pelts and baskets were now stacked in the hallway, Aven would soon be settled. Thor didn’t dare glance to find out as he hurried past.
Next was the closed door of Dorothe’s room. Strange that Ida hadn’t given that one to Aven, but perhaps they meant to preserve Dorothe’s memory awhile longer. The final door was up ten twisting steps that led to the third floor—a finished attic he shared with Haakon. It was hot up here in the summer, cold in the winter, but never so miserable that they weren’t grateful for the space. Windows were everywhere. Thor’s favorite being the pair that overlooked the westward slope where his Baldwins grew, deep and red. Right now, the sun was gone, leaving only its blush behind the gnarled branches.
After easing the door closed, he strode to his bed and sat on the mattress. He reached beneath the bed and slid forward a rough-hewn box. It bore no top, simply a collection of odds and ends, most ordinary save for the one thing he kept there where it wouldn’t be noticed.
He didn’t need to reach in and pull out the framed wedding photograph to know that Aven’s lips curved up so subtly it could hardly be considered a smile. Or that the young bride standing beside Benn Norgaard was seventeen on the month. Plucked from an Irish workhouse to marry a man she had never met. But with her likeness now fresh in his mind, Thor reached into the box and loosened the photograph from beneath two books, the Norwegian titles as well-read as all the English books lining his shelf.
He looked down at the photograph, smoothed his thumb along the frame, and felt a pang at the sight of Aven’s wide, uncertain eyes. Benn’s proud grip on her hand. Thor had always disliked that about the photograph, which had come by post a few months after the wedding. The unease in Aven’s expression. How young and lonely and lost she looked. Perhaps he couldn’t hear, but he could see. Better than most. And he’d always seen heartache in her face.
But she’d been the wife of another, so Thor had vowed to push the Irish girl from his mind—the photograph soon collecting dust on the wall with many others. Until news reached them of Benn’s death, and Thor had pulled it down and studied once more the face of the young woman who had bound herself to his older cousin.
Who—now widowed—bore the name Norgaard.
He’d stowed the framed image in his box where it was safe. Like the spark of hope forming in his guarded heart.
Now she was but feet away. So near that he need only stride down the hall, rap his knuckles against her door, and find himself peering into those same eyes. See afresh that her hair was actually the color of copper and that her skin was as pale as it was in that photograph of black and white. The shade of buttercream and just as silken, he imagined.
This woman who’d walked up to him but hours ago in the orchard. Standing there, a reach away, looking bone-weary as she asked questions he could scarcely answer for her. He’d known it was Aven the moment he had turned. His heart so quick in his chest, he thought it would fail him. Even if he had known what to say to her, he had no way to speak it.
Floorboards vibrated beneath his boots. Thor slid the frame away and shoved the box from sight. He straightened just as Haakon stepped into the attic. Pressing his fingers together, Haakon touched them to his mouth.
Time to eat. Thor rose. Haakon spoke, but the phrase was lost in the dimming light. Thor didn’t like the dark and the way it made his world shrink in smaller, so he smoothed a palm around his chest, then using his forefingers, circled them toward himself—please sign. A freedom he’d never take for granted. Not since the teacher who had bound his wrists together with string, insisting he learn to speak as the others could.
Haakon pointed toward the hall, shaped the letters A-V-E-N, then using two fingertips, slid them down his cheeks.
She was crying?
“It’s not loud,” Haakon said, turning up the lantern. “I heard it when I walked past her door.” He backed away because there wasn’t a meal in the world that the kid would miss. Haakon paused. “Why do you think Dorothe had her come?”
Lifting his shoulders in a shrug, Thor shook his head.
The only answer he would give Haakon.
“Turns out she and I are the same age. Figured that out while I fixed her jammed window.” Haakon bobbed his brows as if that wasn’t the only thing he wanted to fix for her. Before Thor could even think of a response, his younger brother headed back down the steps.
Not entirely hungry, Thor reached for his jar. He didn’t want to, but it was a need so wrought with time and yearning that he unscrewed the lid, lifted the glass to his lips, and drank. No comfort followed as the bubbling cider warmed him, and the liquor did nothing to wash away Haakon’s smug expression. Irritated with his own weakness, Thor replaced the lid.
He rose, set the drink aside, and freed the photograph once more. Stiff from a day’s worth of work, he headed down the stairs. The hallway was nearly black but for the slit of flickering light beneath Aven’s door. He strode with as much care as he could manage. When they were younger and prone to mischief, Haakon had taught him which boards creaked, so Thor stepped over those before slowing in front of Aven’s door.
He hesitated, then placed his palm to the wood. Bowing his head, he closed his eyes.
And there it was. The gentle tremor in the slab. It moved against his hand . . . the sound of her grief. Overwhelmed, he pulled away, grateful Ida was here so Aven’s tears might fade into sleep easier.
After glancing one last time at the photograph—the beginning of a life he knew nothing about, and one he frankly didn’t deserve—Thor knelt, settled it in the nook of her door, and left her with the only thing he could.