It was quiet outside, the horizon glowing an unearthly gold, the rest of the sky shifting in blue and green. The birds were quiet. The moon was up, a tiny crescent in the middle of the sky. The air was cold and wet; the grass swished against the skirt, leaving moisture pearling on the wool. Cilla could see all the way down to the lake and up to the mountain. She took her glasses off and put them in the purse. Now she was one of the vittra, coming down from the mountain, heading for the river. She was tall and graceful, her step quiet. She danced as she went, barefoot in the grass.
A sliver of sun peeking over the horizon broke the spell. Cilla’s feet were suddenly numb with cold. She went back into the house and took everything off again, fished her glasses out and folded the clothes into the cardboard box. It was good wool; the dew brushed off without soaking into the skirt. When Cilla slipped into bed again, it was only a little past two. The linen was warm and smooth against the cold soles of her feet.
They returned to the family house the following day. Sara decided that wading through debris in the attic was stupid and sulked on a chair outside. Cilla spent the day writing more lists. She found more skis, some snowshoes, a cream separator, dolls, a half-finished sofa bed, and a sewing table that was in almost perfect condition.
Johann showed up in the afternoon. Martin and Otto seemed to think he was going to make a scene, because they walked out and met him far down the driveway. Eventually they returned, looking almost surprised, with Johann walking beside them, his hands clasped behind his back. When Cilla next saw him, he had sat down in a chair next to Sara. Sara had a shirtsleeve over her nose and mouth, but she was listening to him talk with rapt attention. Johann left again soon after. Sara wouldn’t tell Cilla what they’d spoken about, but her eyes were a little wider than usual, and she kept knocking things over.
When they returned to Hedvig’s house, Sara decided to try on Märet’s dress. On her, the skirt wasn’t too long or too tight; it cinched her waist just so, ending neatly at her ankle. The bodice fit like it was tailor-made for her as well, tracing the elegant tapering curve of her back from shoulder to hip. She looked like she’d just stepped out of a story. It made Cilla’s chest feel hollow.
Sara caught her gaze in the mirror and made a face. “It looks stupid.” She plucked at the skirt. “The red is way too bright. I wonder if you could dye it black? Because that would look awesome.”
Cilla looked at her own reflection, just visible beyond Sara’s red splendour. She was short and barrel-shaped, eyes tiny behind her glasses. There were food stains on her sweater. “You look stupid,” she managed.
Mum was scrubbing potatoes in the kitchen when Cilla came downstairs.
“Who’s getting the dress, Mum? Because Sara wants to dye it black.”
“Oh ho?” said Mum. “Probably not, because it’s not hers.”
“Can I have it?” Cilla shifted her weight from foot to foot. “I wouldn’t do anything to it.”
“No, love. It belongs to Hedvig.”
“But she’s old. She won’t use it.”
Mum turned and gave Cilla a long look, eyebrows low. “It belonged to her mother, Cilla. How would you feel if you found my wedding dress, and someone gave it away to some relative instead?”
“She has everything else,” Cilla said. “I don’t have anything from great-gran.”
“I’m sure we can find something from the house,” said Mum. “But not the dress. It means a lot to Hedvig. Think of someone else’s feelings for a change.”
Sara came down a little later with the same request. Mum yelled at her.
Maybe it was because of Mum’s outburst, but Sara became twitchier as the evening passed on. Finally she muttered something about going for a walk and shrugged into her jacket. Cilla hesitated a moment and then followed.
“Fuck off,” Sara muttered without turning her head when Cilla came running after her.
“No way,” said Cilla.
Sara sighed and rolled her eyes. She increased her pace until Cilla had to half-jog to keep up. They said nothing until they came down to the lake’s shore, a stretch of rounded river stones that made satisfying billiard-ball noises under Cilla’s feet.
Sara sat down on one of the larger rocks and dug out a soft ten-pack of cigarettes. She shook one out and lit it. “Tell Mum and I’ll kill you.”
“I know.” Cilla sat down next to her. “Why are you being so weird? Ever since you talked to Johann.”
Sara took a drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke out through her nose. She shrugged. Her eyes looked wet. “He made me understand some things, is all.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m not crazy. Like none of us are.” She looked out over the lake. ”We should stay here. Maybe we’d survive.” Her eyes really were wet now. She wiped at them with her free hand.
Cilla felt cold trickle down her back. “What are you on about?”
Sara rubbed her forehead. “You have to promise not to tell anyone, because if you tell anyone bad stuff will happen, okay? Shit is going to happen just because I’m telling you. But I’ll tell you because you’re my little sis.” She slapped a quick rhythm on her thigh. “Okay. So it’s like this—the world is going to end soon. It’s going to end in ninety-six.”
Cilla blinked. “How would you know?”
“It’s in the newspapers, if you look. The Gulf War, yeah? That’s when it started. Saddam Hussein is going to take revenge and send nukes, and then the U.S. will nuke back, and then Russia jumps in. And then there’ll be nukes everywhere, and we’re dead. Or we’ll die in the nuclear winter, ‘cause they might not nuke Sweden, but there’ll be nothing left for us.” Sara’s eyes were a little too wide.
“Okay,” Cilla said, slowly. “But how do you know all this is going to happen?”
“I can see the signs. In the papers. And I just… know. Like someone told me. The twenty-third of February in ninety-six, that’s when the world ends. I mean, haven’t you noticed that something’s really really wrong?”
Cilla dug her toe into the stones. “It’s the opposite.”
“What?” There was no question mark to Sara’s tone.
“Something wonderful,” Cilla said. Her cheeks were hot. She focused her eyes on her toe.
“You’re a fucking idiot.” Sara turned her back, demonstratively, and lit a new cigarette.
Cilla never could wait her out. She walked back home alone.
On midsummer’s eve, they had a small feast. There was pickled herring and new potatoes, smoked salmon, fresh strawberries and cream, spiced schnapps for Mum and Hedvig. It was past ten when Cilla pulled on Sara’s sleeve.
“We have to go pick seven kinds of flowers,” she said.
Sara rolled her eyes. “That’s kid stuff. I have a headache,” she said, standing up. “I’m going to bed.”
Cilla remained at the table with her mother and great-aunt, biting her lip.
Mum slipped an arm around her shoulder. “Picking seven flowers is an old, old tradition,” she said. “There’s nothing silly about it.”
“I don’t feel like it anymore,” Cilla mumbled.
Mum chuckled gently. “Well, if you change your mind, tonight is when you can stay up for as long as you like.”
“Just be careful,” said Hedvig. “The vittra might be out and about.” She winked conspiratorially at Cilla.
At Hedvig’s dry joke, Cilla suddenly knew with absolute certainty what she had been pining for, that wonderful something waiting out there. She remained at the table, barely able to contain her impatience until Mum and Hedvig jointly decided to go to bed.