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“Have you?” I asked because my tongue wouldn’t let the question stay unspoken.

Lilja picked up my marking gauge and turned it, running a finger along the edge of the wheel. “There was a girl,” she said. “She wasn’t ever my sweetheart, but… but I wanted her to be.”

I kept my eyes on the file in my hand. My palms had grown slick. “Where is she now?”

“She died a long time ago.”

Surely, I was the cruelest person in the world because an equal measure of relief and joy coursed through me, rushing like a stream after the first thaw. Lilja had liked a girl once, had wanted her as her sweetheart.

She was like me.

Once I had thought myself the only odd one in the world, the only girl who had no interest in boys. One day, when I had been fifteen and she was fourteen, Alma and I had been looking through a book of fashion prints my uncle had brought back from Gothenburg, discussing the pictures of the dresses in there. Or rather, Alma had had the opinions. I had mostly nodded along. She had started to cry, and quite suddenly, and I had asked her what was wrong. She had confessed it all then. How she thought that perhaps maybe she liked women in a way one ought not to. That afternoon had changed everything. I had told her I was the same, and on the short walk back to my house, I had felt as if I might float up into the sky. The emotion that sat now in my chest like bubbles of air wasn’t the exact same, but it reminded me of that day with Alma.

“What happened to her?” I asked Lilja. “The girl?”

“I don’t know. I just know she died.”

“I’m sorry.” I cleared my throat, but I still sounded like a toad when I asked, “Do you miss her still?”

“Not so much, no. It’s been so long. It’s more that… that I sometimes feel so terribly lonely. Do you ever feel that way?” She put down the gauge. It clanked softly against the wood of the bench. The whole world seemed in a hush, blanketed by the snow outside.

“I do,” I said.

“I thought you might. I feel like you understand me better than anyone. Like… like we’re the same.”

“I think maybe we are.”

We stared at each other, and I could tell she understood what I hadn’t quite said. We were the same. My heart was beating as fast as if I had been chased by wolves. Breaking our gaze finally, I held the chimney to the locomotive’s boiler in the place where I would glue it on. “What do you think?” I asked.

Lilja smiled. “It looks just darling. The butcher’s boy’s a lucky one.”

Chapter Fourteen

On Saint Lucia Day, I woke up to silence, the absence of the howl of the wind that had haunted the house these last weeks. I lit the candle and got dressed, but as I was about to leave for the kitchen, something stopped me. The window. I stepped closer, holding the flame up to the pane. The glass was covered in ice flowers, but not your usual kind. These weren’t the simple feather-like forms, but rather intricate swirls and curlicues, like the gilded carvings on a piece of rococo furniture. It was the strangest sight I had ever seen, even if it was beautiful.

In the living room, I lit the lamp and took it to the window. Frosty blooms spread across the glass in here too. It was the same in the kitchen, and I opened the door. There were footsteps in the snow, although not of the shoed kind, but rather from some sort of creature. A dog, judging by the shape. One of the neighbors’, no doubt, out on a little jaunt now that the snow had ceased falling.

I closed the door, shivering because it was damn cold. When I turned, Lilja was standing behind me, and I startled because I hadn’t heard her come in. She had her shawl pulled close, and it was like she didn’t see me. She was even paler than usual, and her eyes were fixed on the window.

“The elves have improved their painting skills,” I said to make her smile. She didn’t. Instead, she walked to me and wrapped her arms around my waist, holding me very tight.

“Are you frightened?” I asked.

She nodded against my shoulder. Her hair smelled like pine needles.

“Of your foster mother?”

Another nod.

“She’s far from Norstad. The only one out there is a dog.”

That made her cling more tightly to me. I rested my hands on her back. I could feel the slight rise of her spine against the wool of her dress and shawl, and I very nearly put my cheek against the top of her head.

“We’re going to my uncle’s house later,” I said. “Karin bakes the best lussekatter.”

Lilja nodded again, but she didn’t let go of me.

“Let’s make breakfast,” I told her. “Before Helena insists on doing it and burns the whole thing. We’ve got a lot to do today, and I don’t want to do it on an empty stomach.”