Breath and Bones by Susann Cokal Page A

kind. Vida was chubby and smelled like Herr Skatkammer’s cat, and she was not Albert. Famke had to take some other action.

    With April and the British Royal Academy show well in the past, Famke took advantage of her first Thursday halfday and trudged into Copenhagen. Albert had promised to tell her how Nimue fared, and her faith in that promise had only grown in the absence of other hopes.
    Fru Strand’s rooming house looked more dilapidated than ever, now that Famke had Herr Skatkammer’s villa to compare it to. The landlady still had not replaced the windows Albert had removed, and she probably never would, Famke thought as she rapped at Fru Strand’s door. There must be plenty of sailors who were willing to take that room; when in port, they lived in the darkness and slept in the daytime, so the boards would be no hardship for them.
    When the door opened, Famke was surprised to see not Strand but a hunched-over man of early middle age. He was in his shirtsleeves, a napkin glistening with fish scales around his neck; when he saw her, he whisked it off, revealing an equally discolored shirtfront, then wiped his mouth and tossed the napkin into the shadows beyond the door. With lips still shiny, he smiled and tried to straighten, but he was unable to do so fully.
    Famke hesitated, but she remembered the boarded-up windows above; she was in the right place. “
NÃ¥
. . . I came to see Fru Strand.”
    â€œShe is gone,” he said, and made a courtly little bow. “I am Ole Rasmussen, her nephew and the new proprietor. You are a friend?”
    â€œI lived here once,” Famke said. “Just a month ago. With my husband.” She felt it was only polite to ask, “Where has Fru Strand gone?”
    â€œTo the other side,” he said delicately; then, when Famke still looked blank, “She is dead.”
    Famke received this news with a shock that surprised even herself.
    â€œShe fell into the canal,” Rasmussen said helpfully. “She was—er—”
    â€œShe was drunk,” Famke said.
    â€œ
Nej
, sadly, she was set upon by thieves. They were never found, but they took even her gold tooth.”
    There was no predicting what might happen—accidents, footpads—oh, Albert!
    Famke swallowed. “I have come to ask about a letter,” she said, willing her voice to steady itself. “My husband was to have written me here. Hisname is Albert Castle, and mine is Famke—or Ursula.” She didn’t know which name Albert might use in writing her, or whether he’d try giving her a last name.
    Ole Rasmussen opened his door wider, and for the first time Famke saw into the landlord’s lair. It was the dirtiest place she had ever seen—broken-down furniture and newspapers, indeed papers of every sort, everywhere, and a thick pall of dust choking the air itself. Fru Strand had left a filthy mess for her nephew; but then, judging by his shirt, filth appeared to be a family trait.
    Rasmussen gestured at the moldering papers that had burst from a pigeonholed desk like stuffing from a sofa. “There may be something,” he said. “
Fanden
, I think there is. I remember your name, and your husband’s, from one of my aunt’s record books—she kept several, in various places—and perhaps your name was on a letter as well. But I must sort through all of that again before I can say for certain.”
    Famke’s heart leapt. “I could help you,” she said.
    â€œ
Puhha
.” Rasmussen blew out, and she smelled the herring on his breath. “I don’t have time to look for a letter today. There’s a window to fix upstairs first, and I have the glass waiting.”
    It seemed terribly cruel that Famke should be kept from Albert’s letter—if there was such a letter—by a violence that Albert himself had done to the building. She wondered if Rasmussen might have been more inclined to help if