Isobel looked out the train window. They had passed the southern suburbs of Stockholm, and the view outside the train was increasingly green, less concrete. Leila, who had mumbled something about other commitments, had left for Skåne the day before. Isobel didn’t know how many people would be there—Leila had been suspiciously vague—but as far as she knew, it was an unusually big event. She scanned the program she had been given, which she was using as a bookmark in the paperback she was trying to make her way through. First, a chance to mingle on the lawn and in the castle grounds, then an official opening, followed by talks in various drawing rooms. The awarding of a newly launched cultural prize would also take place. Between the events, attendees could walk around the castle grounds and view an exhibition of young artists’ installations. The whole thing was wrapped up by a ball in the evening, to which certain guests, Isobel and Leila included, were invited. The host was, if she had understood correctly, an eccentric. The theme for the weekend was The Circle of Life: Art, Aid, and the World in Which We Live. Isobel didn’t know if she thought it was annoyingly pretentious or actually quite insightful.

Her cell phone rang as they reached Linköping, 125 miles southeast of Stockholm. She fished it up from her purse and answered.

“Hi, Mom.”

“I need some help putting up shelves in my living room. You’re free this weekend, aren’t you? I’d like you to come over,” Blanche Sørensen said by way of greeting.

“I’m on my way to Skåne.” She had told her mother about the fund-raiser earlier that week, but Blanche had a tendency to forget anything that didn’t directly affect her.

“What are you doing there?”

“Leila and I are speaking about Medpax,” Isobel reminded her patiently.

Blanche was silent for a while. “I remember when I used to go to those events. I was a star. I could bring in as many donors as I wanted.”

It was true. Her mother had been legendary. Witty and beautiful. It was no accident that Medpax’s golden age had coincided with her mother’s. She was extraordinary at galas and on TV sofas, hated to be at home.

“I’m planning to invite people over for the Feast of the Ascension,” Blanche continued. “That’s why I’m putting up shelves and bringing in new furniture. When you come home, you can help me to move the couch. I thought you could come to the party too. You can help me with the food.”

Her mother always assumed she would be there to help. But Isobel knew she only had herself to blame. She had lived and grown up with her grandmother for the first ten years of her life. Her mother had been in Paris and visited them at irregular intervals. When her grandmother died, Blanche had moved back to Sweden, but Isobel had always been afraid that her mother would get tired of her and leave again. For many years, her sole desire had been for her mother to need her, want her help, and so during her childhood Isobel had practically bent over backward to please her. As the years passed, her mother had gotten used to Isobel organizing whatever she wanted for her. Except when it came to her job. That was the only area in which Isobel put up a fight and clung tightly to what she wanted to do, regardless of the price she paid in criticism and disapproval.

“I’ll be in Chad then,” she said.

“You didn’t say anything about that.”

Isobel pinched the bridge of her nose. Two more minutes, then she would hang up. “It only got decided recently. They gave me the date this week.”

“Why are you going? Doesn’t Leila have anyone else?”

“Sven dropped out. Family reasons.”

Blanche snorted. “Doctors today are made of such weak stuff. I suppose you’ll have to do it, then. At least it’s better when you go out on behalf of Medpax rather than MSF. But Isobel, I’m only saying this for your own good, you really do need to think about your future. One field mission is good for your CV, but this constant travel around the world. Everyone else is moving past you. When I was your age, I had already started to write my thesis.”

Isobel stared out the window. Sometimes these conversations were so similar that it felt she’d had them hundreds of times before. She assumed there was a psychological term for the relationship she had with her mother, but it was difficult to analyze when you were in the middle of it all. The hardest thing to understand was how other people could see her as so successful when all her own mother could see were faults to be criticized.

“Mom, I need to go through my notes.”

“Don’t mind me, I’m used to taking care of myself. Your father never had the time either. It’s just that my friends’ daughters always help them. I don’t know why it’s so difficult for you to step up from time to time. Think about it. Don’t have children, they’re so selfish.”

Isobel took a deep breath. Well, at least Blanche couldn’t be accused of being overprotective. Or of pressuring her for grandchildren.

“I’ll call you when I get home. I’ll try to come over one evening. I need to hang up now,” she said, ending the call before she said something she would regret.

She got up and went to the restaurant car, bought a coffee, and sat back down. Outside, the countryside was slowly changing from coniferous trees and a pale landscape to deciduous trees and golden fields. Skåne was three weeks ahead of Stockholm; down here, spring had long since arrived.

She drank her coffee, threw the cup away, and closed her eyes for a moment. She hadn’t heard from Alexander. She assumed that meant it was over between them. What little there had been. Their dinner date, the salsa dancing, his visit to her at work, it had been so … nice. Christ, when did she last have so much fun?

But he hadn’t called. She looked at her phone again. Brought up his number. It would be so easy to text him a line or two. Instead she put the phone facedown on the table. If she didn’t care in the slightest about Alexander, she might have contacted him. Dared to ask if he wanted to go out for a drink. But she had been thinking about him all week, felt disappointed when he hadn’t gotten in touch. It was as good a sign as any to step away, this feeling of her control slipping. From an emotional point of view, she couldn’t afford to let a man like Alexander into her life. He was too intense, too unpredictable. Had the potential to awaken things she wasn’t sure she ever wanted to wake again.

She rummaged for her notes. Smoothed them out, resolute. A weekend in a castle was just what she needed to get away from these unwelcome feelings. They would disappear soon enough. She had even bought a ball gown. She would have fun. It was a good plan, and the smartest thing she could do. After all, she excelled at being smart. She sighed.

When the taxi dropped Isobel off outside the castle just after lunch—she actually paused to catch her breath; she hadn’t realized that Sweden had castles like this—she was met by the kindly, smiling staff, who asked for her name and then made sure she was shown to her room in one of the turrets.

“There has to be some mistake.” Isobel paused, stunned, in the doorway.

The young woman dressed in seventeenth-century costume who had shown her the way—a history student from the university in Lund, she’d told her—looked at a piece of paper. “Dr. Isobel Sørensen?”

“Yes.”

“Then this is your room. It’s called the Queen Room, because a number of Swedish queens from the last three centuries have stayed here. Breakfast is between seven and ten in the dining room on the first floor.”

“But …” Isobel began before she realized the young woman had already disappeared.

She went into the room. Huge, pastel-colored oriental rugs silenced her footsteps. An enormous bed in the middle of the room was covered in pink and red fabric; the wallpaper looked as though it had been painted with real gold. Vases of roses were placed here and there, and the breeze from the window caused the thin, embroidered curtains to flutter. Magnificent didn’t come close to describing the room.

After quickly unpacking, Isobel went back down the steep, uneven castle stairs. Each step was gently worn down in the middle, thousands of feet, over hundreds of years, having followed the very same route. Outside, people blanketed the paved courtyard. She walked over to the moat and stood there for a moment, peering down into it. Then she saw Leila, walking arm in arm with an older man. Leila was dressed in black, as usual. The man was in a wine-colored suit, a colorful waistcoat, and a silk cravat.

“Isobel! Let me introduce you to our host,” Leila called.

“Eugene Tolstoy. We’ve actually met before,” he said as they shook hands. His sharp eyes moved over her.

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember,” she said. She did recognize him but couldn’t quite place him. People were pouring in from all directions, and Eugene’s attention was elsewhere before he had time to reply.

Leila let go of Eugene’s arm and took Isobel’s instead.

“Come on,” said Leila. “I want to see the exhibition before it gets too crowded.”

They came out onto a lawn. People were already wandering about there. Through the trees, Isobel caught sight of a lake with swans and wild ducks paddling in it. Beneath a fluttering awning, guests studied the paintings hanging from thin silver cables, as though they were hovering weightlessly in the air. Surrealist paintings, remarkably beautiful.

“Eugene has collected art his entire life. He says this boy is a genius,” said Leila, standing with her gaze fixed on an image of a huge bird with wings metamorphosing into tree trunks. Identity and outsiderness, Isobel thought. It was sad and beautiful.

“He’s only eighteen. Fled from Russia. I mean, the things they do to people in that country. Eugene is particularly protective of all the LGBTQ people, of course. And anyone else who falls outside the norm.”

“Eugene is gay?” Isobel asked. They had seemed very affectionate, he and Leila. “I thought maybe the two of you …?”

Leila shrugged. “We’ve known one another a long time. He’s a Renaissance man, and we have a special relationship. We play backgammon when we get the chance. Talk about politics and history. He’s related to the old Russian tsars. My parents had relatives close to the Persian throne. We old aristocrats have lots in common.”

“Backgammon?”

“It’s actually a Persian game from many years ago. The oldest board game in the world. He’s very good.”

“We can talk about that later,” Isobel said with an eye on her watch. “I want to have a look at the room where we’re going to speak. Coming?”

“Of course. There’s a lot of press here too. It’s one of Sweden’s oldest privately owned castles, and it hasn’t been open to the public before, so the media is curious. We’ll make sure Medpax gets plenty of coverage.”

“It’s great company for us to be seen in,” Isobel said as they crossed the luscious lawns. “You’ve done a fantastic job, Leila.”

“How is your room?”

“Never seen anything like it. I’m wondering if I wasn’t given the wrong one.”

“Of course not, you’re an important guest.”

“I am?”

“Don’t you realize that—” Leila started but was interrupted by a journalist who had recognized her. “I’ll come and find you,” Leila said before turning to the journalist.

Isobel left to look for the room where the lectures would take place. She shook hands with a few other speakers, greeted a famous professor from Karolinska Institutet—a man she had spoken to many times before and who would be opening the talks. She had a lot of respect for him, and he regularly tried to convince her to come work for him. When they parted, she glanced wide-eyed around the room in which they would be talking. It was at least as grand as the bedroom she had been given. Golden walls, antique furniture, and row after row of chairs upholstered in blue velvet. It was easy to imagine noblewomen sitting there, in their crinolines, whispering behind their fans.

Isobel took out her stack of prompts and decided to go through her speech one last time. She was glad she had come, glad to be able to focus on something. This was just what she needed in order to leave all thoughts of Alexander where they belonged: in the past.