“It looks just like when we were kids,” said Mum.
“Doesn’t it?” said Otto.
Cilla returned to the entryway, peering up the stairs to the next floor. “What about upstairs? Can we go upstairs?”
“Certainly,” said Martin. “Let me go first and turn on the lights.” He took a torch from his pocket, lighting his way as he walked up the stairs. Sara and Cilla followed him.
The top of the stairs ended in a narrow corridor, where doors opened to the master bedroom and two smaller rooms with two beds in each.
“How many people lived here?” Cilla peered into the master bedroom.
“Depends on when you mean,” Martin replied. “Your grandmother had four siblings altogether. And I think there was at least a cousin or two of theirs living here during harvest, too.”
“But there are only four single beds,” said Sara from the doorway of another room.
Martin shrugged. “People shared beds.”
“But you didn’t live here all the time, right?”
“No, no. My mother moved out when she got married. I grew up in town. Everyone except Johann moved out.”
“There are more stairs over here,” said Sara from further away.
“That’s the attic,” said Martin. “You can start making lists of things up there.” He handed Cilla his torch, a pen and a sheaf of paper. “Mind your step.”
The attic ran the length of the house, divided into compartments. Each compartment was stacked with stuff: boxes, furniture, old skis, kick-sleds, a bicycle. The little windows and the weak light bulb provided enough light that they didn’t need the torch. Cilla started in one end of the attic, Sara in the other, less sorting and more rooting around. After a while, Mum came upstairs.
“There’s a huge chest here,” said Sara after a while, pushing a stack of boxes to the side.
Cilla left her list and came over to look. It was a massive blue chest with a rounded lid, faded and painted with flowers.
“Let me see,” said Mum from behind them.
Mum came forward, knelt in front of the chest, and opened it, the lid lifting with a groan. It was filled almost to the brim with neatly folded white linen, sprinkled with mothballs. In a corner sat some bundles wrapped in tissue paper.
Mum shone her torch into the chest. “This looks like a hope chest.” She carefully lifted the tissue paper and uncovered red wool. She handed the torch to Cilla, using both hands to lift the fabric up. It was a full-length skirt, the cloth untouched by vermin.
“Pretty,” said Sara. She took the skirt, holding it up to her waist.
“There’s more in here,” said Mum, moving tissue paper aside. “A shirt, an apron, and a shawl. A whole set. It could be Märet’s.”
“Like what she got married in?” said Cilla.
“Maybe so,” said Mum.
“It’s my size,” said Sara. “Can I try it on?”
“Not now. Keep doing lists.” Mum took the skirt back, carefully folding it and putting it back into the chest.
Sara kept casting glances at the chest the rest of the morning. When Cilla caught her looking, Sara gave her the finger.
Later in the afternoon, Mum emptied a cardboard box and put the contents from the hope chest in it. “I’m taking this over to Hedvig’s. I’m sure she can tell us who it belonged to.”
After dinner, Mum unpacked the contents of the hope chest in Hedvig’s kitchen. There were six bundles in alclass="underline" the red skirt with a matching bodice, a red shawl, a white linen shift, a long apron striped in red and black, and a black purse embroidered with red flowers. Hedvig picked up the purse and ran a finger along the petals.
“This belonged to Märet.” Hedvig smiled. “She showed me these once, before she passed away. That’s what she wore when she came down from the mountain,” she said. “I thought they were gone. I’m very glad you found them.”
“How old were you when she died?” said Sara.
“It was in twenty-one, so I was fourteen. It was terrible.” Hedvig shook her head. “She died giving birth to Nils, your youngest great-uncle. It was still common back then.”
Cilla fingered the skirt. Out in daylight, the red wool was bright and luxurious, like arterial blood. “What was she like?”
Hedvig patted the purse. “Märet was… a peculiar woman,” she said eventually.
“Was she really crazy?” Cilla said.
“Crazy? I suppose she was. She certainly passed something on. The curse, like Johann says. But that’s silly. She came here to help with harvest, you know, and she fell in love with your great-grandfather. He didn’t know much about her. No one did, except that she was from somewhere northeast of here.”
“I thought she came down from the mountain,” I said.
Hedvig smiled. “Yes, she would say that when she was in the mood.”
“What about those things, anyway?” Sara said. “Are they fairies?”
“What?” Hedvig gave her a blank look.
“The vittra,” Cilla filled in helpfully. “The ones that live on the mountain.”
“Eh,” said Hedvig. “Fairies are cute little things that prance about in meadows. The vittra look like humans, but taller and more handsome. And it’s inside the mountain, not on it.” She had brightened visibly, becoming more animated as she spoke. “There were always stories about vittra living up there. Sometimes they came down to trade with the townspeople. You had to be careful with them, though. They could curse you or kill you if you crossed them. But they had the fattest cows, and the finest wool, and beautiful silver jewellery. Oh, and they liked to dress in red.” Hedvig indicated the skirt Cilla had in her lap. “And sometimes they came to dance with the local young men and women, even taking one away for marriage. And when a child turned out to have nerve problems, they said it was because someone in the family had passed on vittra blood… ”
“But did you meet any?” Sara blurted.
Hedvig laughed. “Of course not. There would be some odd folk showing up to sell their things in town, but they were mostly Norwegians or from those really small villages up north where everyone’s their own uncle.”
Sara burst out giggling.
“Auntie!” Mum looked scandalized.
Hedvig waved a hand at her. “I’m eighty-seven years old. I can say whatever I like.”
“But what about Märet?” Cilla leaned forward.
“Mother, yes.” Hedvig poured a new cup of coffee, arm trembling under the weight of the thermos. “She was a bit strange, I suppose. She really was tall for a woman, and she would say strange things at the wrong time, talk to animals, things like that. People would joke about vittra blood.”
“What do you think?” said Sara.
“I think she must have had a hard life, to run away from her family and never speak of them again.” Hedvig gently took the skirt from Cilla and folded it.
“But the red…”
Hedvig shook her head and smiled. “It was an expensive colour back then. Saying someone wore red meant they were rich. This probably cost Märet a lot.” She put the clothes back in the cardboard box and closed it.
Cilla stayed up until she was sure everyone else had gone to bed. It took ages. Sara wrote in her journal until one o’ clock and then took some time to fall asleep, Robert Smith still whining in her ears.
The cardboard box was sitting on the kitchen sofa, the silk paper in a pile next to it. Cilla lifted the lid, uncovering red wool that glowed in the half-dawn. The shift and the skirt were too long and very tight around the stomach. She kept the skirt unbuttoned and rolled the waistline down, hoisting it so the hem wouldn’t trip her up. She tied the apron tight around her waist to hold everything up, and clipped the purse onto the apron string. The bodice was too loose on her flat chest and wouldn’t close at the waist, so she let it hang open and tied the shawl over her shoulders.