“I asked Sonja to come in mid-day and take charge.” Ellinor’s smile was distinctly guilty. “We’ve got a special evening tour, so it was kind of her. But I wouldn’t have missed this for anything.”
Chloe was watching the dancers. “I’m used to seeing performances, you know? People in folk costume entertaining an audience.”
“This is the real deal,” Ellinor said. “Local people gathering to entertain themselves.”
“Is the accordion typical?” Chloe swung her daypack from her shoulder and pulled out a notebook and pen.
“Accordions began appearing at regional dances in the nineteenth century,” Ellinor began. “New dances like the waltz and polka were becoming popular. Even then, some people worried that the old dances would fade away …”
Chloe scribbled notes, nodding as Ellinor and Torstein detailed the complexities of local music and dance traditions. Roelke didn’t even pretend to pay attention. Instead he assessed the clearing, trying to suss out any possible threat.
All he saw, though, were happy people. Among the throng on the dance floor were senior citizens, stooped with age but beaming. Toddlers held hands with siblings as they bounced back and forth. Parents with babies in their arms bobbed to the rhythm. When the musicians began a waltz, even teens paired up and joined the flow with unexpected skill.
Roelke scratched one earlobe. Well, hunh. Lots of people in Wisconsin grew up dancing the polka, but he’d never seen kids waltzing before.
Bestefar, the elderly man Chloe had interviewed in Kinsarvik, soon joined them with his granddaughter. They were clearly delighted to see Chloe. She greeted them with hugs before introducing Torstein and Ellinor. “Thank you so much for inviting us.” Bestefar beamed.
Roelke felt a ripple of pride. When he’d first met Chloe, he hadn’t had an inkling of what her career was about. Her enthusiasms still sometimes bewildered him. But even after the ugly incidents that had plagued their trip, here she was making an old man feel good about his knowledge. Watching her doing what she loved … well, it all made sense.
One of the fiddle players shouted an announcement. “The next piece will be a Springar,” Torstein translated. He and Chloe watched avidly as the dance began. “I’ve never seen the promenade start before the music!” he marveled.
Chloe pointed with her pen. “And the speed of the women’s orbiting turns …”
The Springar was evidently a favorite dance, because several tunes later, another one was announced. “Chloe?” Torstein said. “Do you want to try?”
“Sure!” She tucked her notebook away and kissed Roelke’s cheek. “Be back soon.” Ellinor spotted a friend and excused herself too.
Roelke crossed his arms and watched the dance. Even he could tell that Chloe and Torstein were good at this Springar thing. They seemed to have different steps—Chloe’s graceful and flowing, Torstein’s showing more bravado. There also seemed to be a flirtatious element to the dance that Roelke hadn’t noticed before.
He realized that one knee was bouncing like a jackhammer. Then he realized that he was feeling the way he had while watching Chloe and Kent Andreasson reminiscing about their dancing days.
Well, hunh. Apparently he wasn’t thrilled with his fiancée sharing her passion for folk dance with other guys.
So suck it up, buddy, he told himself. Chloe was glowing. No one would suspect that she’d been in a car wreck the day before. Bottom line: folk dancing made her happy. Either he took up dancing—which was not going to happen—or he had to learn to live with moments like this.
Torstein gave Chloe a final whirl, making her tiered skirt balloon prettily around her legs. They laughed and joined in the applause. Chloe tipped her head up and said something that prompted Torstein to put one arm around her shoulder. He kept it there as they started down the steps.
Roelke growled and looked away as his good intentions fled. All right, that was enough of that. He’d been a good sport, but he was reaching the limit. He took a couple of deep breaths, watching some big bird circling in the distance, trying to tamp down his irritation. When he felt capable of pleasantly greeting Chloe and Torstein, he stood to meet them.
Just one problem. Chloe and Torstein didn’t appear.
Roelke frowned, moving closer as some dancers left the floor and others took their place. No sign of Chloe and Torstein.
What the hell? Roelke’s hands clenched into fists. Every nerve tingled to full alert. Where could they have gone?
Okay, he told himself. Calm down. They had to be here. Somehow he’d just lost them in the crowd. He began a slow circle of the dance floor, dodging people laughing, people chattering in Norwegian, people calling to friends. He made another circle, this time focusing on the dancers.
He didn’t find Chloe and Torstein.
He checked the two old-fashioned outhouses in the woods nearby, banging on the doors, yelling for Chloe. No joy.
Had she gone back to the car? Roelke couldn’t imagine her leaving without speaking to him first. Besides, he had the only set of car keys in his pocket. Where else was there to go?
He stepped up on a bench, ignoring the startled looks of people nearby, and scanned the crowd again. Still no sign of them.
“Roelke?” It was Ellinor, regarding him with a puzzled frown. “Is something wrong?”
“I can’t find Chloe and Torstein.” He jumped down.
She scanned the clearing. “They must be here somewhere.”
“I’ve looked. They’re not.”
“But—”
“When the Springar ended I saw them turn toward the steps. Then they were gone. I only glanced away for a second.” Except … it had been more than a second.
A cold dread leached into Roelke’s bones. This was his fault. He wouldn’t have lost sight of them if he hadn’t been struggling with grade-school jealousy. He’d vowed to keep his gaze on Chloe. And he hadn’t done it.
“Hey.” Ellinor put a hand on his arm. “Don’t panic. I’ll help you look for—”
“Roelke!” Torstein shoved through the crowd. Alone.
“What?” Roelke grabbed the other man’s shoulder, gave a little shake. “Where’s Chloe?”
“She fell—”
The cold in Roelke’s bones turned to ice. “Where? Is she—”
“I’ll show you.” Torstein whirled and darted away.
Roelke grabbed his and Chloe’s daypacks and followed. “Excuse me—sorry—pardon me,” he panted. “Unnskyld meg,” Ellinor echoed behind him. “Unnskyld …”
Torstein followed a faint path that left the clearing beyond the dance floor, skirting underbrush and plunging between trees before making a sharp turn. They emerged on a rock outcrop so abruptly that he put up his hand to slow Roelke and Ellinor.
There was no sign of Chloe. “Where is she?” Roelke demanded.
Torstein’s eyes glazed with tears. “She fell over the edge.”
As Roelke imagined a tiny broken body at the bottom of a mile-high free-fall, an intense heat boiled inside. Chloe was an experienced hiker. She had never, to his knowledge, fallen off a cliff. He grabbed both of Torstein’s shoulders. “What, did, you, do?”
“Stop it!” Ellinor snapped. She leaned gingerly over the edge. “I see her.”
Roelke dropped to his belly, scraped up his courage, and peered down a steep, irregular slope. The woman he loved sat maybe fifteen feet below the outcrop, her bright shirt sharp against the grays and browns and greens. “Chloe!” he bellowed.
Chloe looked up. “Roelke?”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes!”
She was okay. Roelke’s muscles went limp with relief. Chloe, was, okay. Again. No thanks to him.
“But I gashed my leg,” she called. “And I’m afraid that if I try to move, I’ll just slide farther.”
“Hold tight!” he hollered
. She lifted a hand in acknowledgment.
“I was going to go down and help her up, but it’s so steep …” Torstein had backed away, hands raised defensively. “If Chloe and I both got stuck down there, you wouldn’t have known where to look. That’s why I ran to get you.”
Which was, Roelke had to admit, the most responsible strategy. Well, he’d apologize to Torstein later.
Roelke considered the terrain below. Most of it was loose scree. He could see a track where Chloe had slid after landing below the outcrop. She huddled now at the base of a stunted evergreen that had, evidently, stopped her descent. Just a few yards beyond her was the final drop-off of his nightmares. If Chloe hadn’t stopped herself, she almost certainly would have plunged to her death.
Hell, he thought, considering his options. Traction in that rubble would be difficult. But here and there a few other shrubby trees clung stubbornly to the mountain. If he started the descent off to the right, and zigzagged from tree to tree, it should be manageable. He narrowed his eyes, mentally mapping the safest possible route.
Then he scrambled to his feet. “I’m going down.”
Ellinor looked uncertain. “Maybe we should—”
“I’m going to get Chloe. You can do whatever you want.”
Ten minutes later Roelke eased from the side of the outcrop and began picking his way down the slope. The descent wasn’t easy. He didn’t take a step without first gouging his walking stick into the rubble. Even so he fell on his ass twice. But step by sideways step, aiming from one flat spot or shrub to the next, he managed to reach Chloe.
She was dusty and disheveled. Blood seeped between the fingers she’d clamped over her right calf. He’d never been so glad to see her.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” she said fervently.
“What were you thinking?” The outburst surprised them both, but he couldn’t stop. “Why did you disappear with Torstein? Did it even occur to you that I’d be frantic?”
“I’m sorry!” she flared. “But can you yell at me later? I’d really like to get out of here.”
“I was frightened,” he admitted, already feeling contrite. Sometimes he really could be a jerk. “You’re really all right?”
“Well, I’ve got a whole new layer of bruises.” She managed a shuddery smile. “And I haven’t been able to stop the bleeding here. I didn’t think I could scramble back up on my own. But I’ll survive.”
Roelke cleaned and bandaged the gash with first-aid supplies from his pack, and took the time to clean and cover the worst of her scrapes. Finally he helped her to her feet. She put one arm over his shoulders, and he gave her the walking stick. Then they slowly, very slowly, crept back up the slope. Torstein grabbed Chloe’s hand to help her the last few feet.
“Thank God,” Ellinor exclaimed. “Should we call for medical help? What do you need?”
Chloe looked around. “Actually, what I need most right now is to take a pee.”
“I’ll go with you.” Ellinor clearly wanted to feel useful. “Here. Lean on me.”
Roelke waited until the women had hobbled out of earshot before turning to Torstein. “So, what happened?” His voice quivered with relief and residual anger. He just couldn’t help it.
“When the dance ended I started thinking about Klara.” Torstein blinked as tears welled in his eyes. “All of a sudden I just needed to be alone, so I took off. Chloe followed me.”
Chloe will answer for that later, Roelke thought, but he nodded.
“I spotted that faint trail leading from the clearing. We got here, and …” Torstein spread his hands helplessly. “Roelke, I honestly don’t know what happened. She caught up with me here on the ledge. She started talking, trying to comfort me, but all of a sudden she went quiet. She got this sort of faraway look on her face …”
Roelke felt a sinking sensation beneath his ribs. He knew that look. He’d seen it on the shore in Kinsarvik. He’d seen it when they visited the abandoned dance site near Utne. It happened when Chloe had a flash of … what had she called it? Genetic memory. He wasn’t clear on exactly what happened at such moments. But for a few seconds, maybe longer, she was somewhere else.
“I saw her swaying,” Torstein was saying. “She started pulling at her shirt. I thought she was having a heart attack or something! I reached for her, but she just—just fell over. It was horrifying.”
Knowing he’d made an ass of himself, Roelke held out his right hand. “I’m sorry for losing my temper earlier, Torstein. I got scared.”
Torstein accepted the handshake. “Believe me, I was scared too.”
Dammit all. The entire situation, the entire trip, really was completely out of control.
Like I wasn’t worried enough about bad guys, Roelke thought. Evidently he needed to worry just as much about Chloe’s interactions with her ancestors.
Twenty-Nine
Solveig—August to October 1919
When Solveig woke the next morning, Jørgen was lying on his side in the narrow bed beside her. He’d planted one elbow and propped his cheek on his hand, watching her.
She smiled and stretched. “You didn’t leave,” she said lightly. It was a first.
“I will never leave you, Solveig.” He held her gaze, willing her to understand. “I’ll need to travel. That’s a fiddler’s lot. But I will always return, because you’re part of me”—he tapped his chest—“in here.”
They said goodbye on the front step. Jørgen was happier than she’d ever seen him, more animated. “I will gather my things at the cottage, then start for Kristiania,” he said. “But I will see you in June. Meet me at Tollef’s Danseplass outside Kinsarvik on Midsummer.” He pulled her against his chest, holding her tight as he kissed her again.
“I’ll see you in June,” Solveig echoed as she melted into him, wanting to store up his warmth, his scent, the music that framed his every moment.
Finally, reluctantly, he pulled away. She kept one hand on his arm, fingertips unwilling to break contact even as she forced herself to turn away—
Then she froze. Someone stood at the edge of the meadow.
“Who is that?” Jørgen asked quietly.
Not Father, but Amalie. Solveig pressed one hand against her chest, willing her racing heart to slow. “My younger sister.” It was too late to pretend, so she lifted a hand in greeting.
Amalie walked through the meadow to join them, assessing Jørgen with open curiosity. She looked especially pretty with her blond braids wrapped coronet-style around her head and her cheeks flushed from the climb. She wore the bunad that most women saved for special occasions these days.
“Amalie, this is my friend Jørgen.” Solveig managed a calm tone.
Jørgen offered a hand, and Amalie shook it politely. “How do you do, Jørgen.” Then her gaze dropped to the fiddle case on the step.
“Good to meet you, Amalie.” He nodded, picked up the case, and gave Solveig one last look. His piercing blue eyes repeated his promise: I will see you at Midsummer.
Amalie watched him walk away. “Who was that?”
“I told you. A friend.”
“More than a friend, I think.”
Solveig’s cheeks flamed. “Well … yes.”
“But where is he going?” A perplexed frown furrowed Amalie’s forehead.
“He has a summer cottage higher up the mountain.”
“He had a fiddle.”
“Yes.” Solveig raked her fingers through her hair. Her sister was guileless. Could she keep a secret? I pray so, Solveig thought. “Amalie, you must not tell anyone about meeting Jørgen up here. Promise me. If Father—”
“I would never tell.” Amalie was still staring after Jørgen. “He’s very handsome, isn’t he.”
Solveig realized that her sister was not surprised or upset, but intrigued. The situation probably seemed romantic. “He is,”
Solveig agreed briefly, and changed the subject. “What are you doing here?” She gestured at Amalie’s attire. “Is there a wedding I don’t know about?”
Jørgen had disappeared, and Amalie finally met her sister’s gaze. “What? Oh, no. I’m expected at the Utne Hotel this evening. We have to wear traditional clothes. The tourists like it.”
“If you’re going to Utne, this is quite a detour,” Solveig observed.
Amalie nodded soberly. “I wanted to warn you. Gustav visited again yesterday. He and father had a long talk outside. Father was furious when he came back to the house.”
Solveig sucked in her lower lip. You have a plan, she reminded herself. As soon as she was no longer responsible for the animals she would go to Bergen, work, and count the days until Midsummer. Already the missing of Jørgen was a brooding silence inside.
Events had been set in motion, but Father didn’t climb to the seter that day. He wants me to wonder, Solveig thought as she milked, churned, scrubbed. He wants me to worry. She could do nothing but wait for the storm.
When Solveig stepped from the cabin the next morning, an oblong parcel wrapped in canvas lay on the step. Surely Gustav wouldn’t try again.
Had Jørgen carved a mangle for her? She crouched and pulled back the canvas to reveal not a mangle, but a fiddle case. She opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was the most beautiful hardingfele she had ever seen. Jørgen had adorned the fingerboard with glowing pieces of mother-of-pearl. He’d carved a dragon’s head above the pegs. He’d inked delicate designs on the front of the fiddle.
Overwhelmed, she picked it up.
Only then did she see the ornamentation on the fiddle’s narrow sides: a row of dancing devils, drawn by a clever hand.
Solveig’s sullen brother climbed to the seter every Saturday to fetch the dwindling loads of cheese and butter. He said little and never lingered. For the first time the solitude weighed on her. She shivered through her chores with two woolen shawls knotted over her shoulders, hands chapped with the constant scrubbing, wondering where Jørgen was. When might he reach Kristiania? Would he make haste, or look for opportunities to perform along the way?
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