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“I knocked on the door and demanded her father let her go.”

“That was very brave of you.”

I shrugged. “It was the right thing to do.”

“Still. Many people wouldn’t have done it.”

“Perhaps. It didn’t work anyway. He told me to leave and mind my own business.”

“But you didn’t?”

“No. That night we helped Helena flee out the window. She was in a bad state. A split lip, bruises all over. They hadn’t fed her for a week.”

Lilja pulled her shawl closer. “What cruelty. And to his own daughter.”

I swallowed at the memory of Helena, her neck and collar covered in dried blood, her legs shaking from hunger, of her sobbing in Alma’s arms in the sled as I drove us back to Norstad in the moonlight.

“When we got home,” I said. “I hired her as my housekeeper. That way she’s close to Alma. They see each other every day.”

“You saved her,” Lilja said, and her expression was one of such earnestness. “Just like you saved me.”

I loosened my grip on the reins. I had clutched them so tightly my knuckles had paled. “Alma and I did. I couldn’t have done it without her.”

“You’re close?”

“More like sisters than cousins. Do you have siblings?”

Lilja glanced away from the road at the passing forest. “Yes, and quite a lot of them. Is it far still?”

“No. Just beyond the bend in the road.”

She peered ahead, and when we turned, the red walls of the cottage came into view among the pines. Around it lay stacks of wood—birch, fir, pine, beech, and some oak—cut into planks or in logs still. Smoke was rising out of the chimney, blending into the linen-white of the sky.

Gustafsson came out when he heard the squeak of the wagon and the clop of Poppy’s hooves. “Selma, here for your Christmas order?”

“If you’ve got some wood you want to sell.”

The tanned skin around his eyes wrinkled when he smiled. “Of course. For you, always.”

I reined in, jumped down, and held out my hand to Lilja. She took it, and I helped her down. “This is Miss Norling,” I told Gustafsson. “She works for me in the store.”

He did a little bow. “Pleased to meet you, miss.”

Lilja smiled. “Likewise.”

I pulled the paper out of my pocket on which I had noted everything I needed and handed it to Gustafsson. He looked it over. “I should have it all, yes. Let’s get to it.”

We started at the pile of birch. I chose a split log without too many knots, and together Gustafsson and I loaded it onto the wagon. Lilja looked on, careful not to get in our way. With her lace shawl and delicate features, she looked out of place among all the rawness of the wood and the sawdust that covered the ground.

We moved on to pine, and Lilja walked from pile to pile, tilting her head the way she always did when she studied something new. A lock of her hair had come loose from a pin and escaped her bonnet, spilling down her back like a black silk ribbon against the cream wool of the shawl. Gustafsson caught my arm when I almost stumbled over a stump. We loaded the spruce next, then the single log of oak on my list.

“Then just the ash,” Gustafsson said. “I’ve got some good quality for you.”

Lilja followed us to the side of the cottage, to where the logs lay under the overhang of the roof. It was cut mostly into squares since for most people in Norstad, it was too expensive for house building or floor laying. Strong but elastic, it was used for tool handles and, of course, the occasional toy for a customer who wanted to pay extra for durability.

“This is ash?” Lilja asked.

“Yes.” Gustafson pointed to a piece. “You can tell by the bark. It’s grayish like a beech but grooved like an oak. The grain is very light. Pale, I call it.”