Breath and Bones by Susann Cokal Page B

she hadn’t introduced herself as a married woman.
    â€œI could look for myself,” she offered. “And I could sort the papers for you. I am employed as a housekeeper . . . just until my husband returns.”
    But her employment was no guarantee to Herr Rasmussen, who looked distressed at the thought of a strange woman excavating the desk before he had his chance. There could be money in those heaps . . . He blinked at her with palpable suspicion.
    â€œOr I can come back,” she said, mustering her dignity. “Perhaps in two weeks?” It would be at least that long before she had another half day.
    â€œMaybe.” He coughed into his already grimy sleeve, then sighed and extricated a handkerchief that had worked its way up to his elbow. He blew his nose. “Or you can leave me your address and the money for postage, and if there is something for you I will send it on.” He tucked the crumpled handkerchief back into his cuff, clearly aware of having offered her a great favor.
    Famke realized that whether she accepted this offer or not, she would have to tip the man a
Krone
for his goodwill. She might as well add the few
Øre
needed for a local-delivery stamp; though she disliked giving money away, that would be the fastest means of getting Albert’s letter, when it was found. She wrote out her new address and handed it to Ole Rasmussen with the coins. Still, she resolved that she would keep visiting until Rasmussen told her for certain whether a letter for her might lie somewhere in Fru Strand’s pigeonholes.
    â€œThank you so much,” she said as she turned away, preparing herself for the long walk back with neither more nor less hope than had accompanied her into town.

    Famke tried not to think about a letter. She tried not to run for Skatkammer’s post when, at the strokes of ten and three, it arrived each day. She set herself other tasks—memorizing lists of English words as she dusted the collections, practicing the gestures of the Three Graces as she made Herr Skatkammer’s bed. She learned the solemn Saints’ names, Erastus Mortensen and Heber Goodhouse, and found out as much as she could about them. Though they still had brown hairs among the gray, they both looked old to Famke, perhaps even older than Frøken Grubbe, though not so old as Herr Skatkammer. They earned her gratitude for using none of the pomade she had to wash out of the antimacassars when other visitors left; they smelled only of the plain soap she was used to and liked. They wore round spectacles and always had a book in hand—
En Sandheds Röst, En Røst fra Landet Zion, Mormons Bog
.
    Ah, Mormons. Famke had heard of Mormons before; in Dragør there was a man who’d come to proselytize—maybe one of these very two—and she had heard that right by the town well he had preached crazy miracles and said the Garden of Eden was in a place called Missouri. The good Lutherans of the village had chased him away with pitchforks, and for weeks afterward they warned their women that when a Mormon came to town, it was to steal Danish girls and lock them inside a hidden temple. They also reported that the patriarchs married their own daughters. Everyone knew that the Mormon symbol was the beehive, which they claimed signifiedhard work and sweet rewards, but which others knew meant a tower of pain and poison to outsiders. These two looked harmless enough, but now Famke saw them through the misty veil of legend. They were both wicked and alluring.
    She began to listen behind the office door when they were there, and even hung out the windows to get a last look as they left. She learned that Mortensen’s father had been Danish, a good friend of Herr Skatkammer in the days when both were Lutheran. This long-dead friendship explained why Herr Skatkammer indulged the frequent visits—this, and perhaps the same kind of fascinated curiosity that drew Famke to them. Otherwise