physical characteristics. Thirty eight, twenty-six, thirty-six, if you want to know. I’m not proud of them; they have been a distinct handicap to me throughout my life. I’m a
historian, not a centrefold.
As I was saying, I had decided it would be easier to convince Cousin Gus and let him argue with the cops, especially since I wasn’t absolutely certain I was right. My reasoning made good
sense to me, but I had very little solid evidence with which to back it up. All the same, as I sipped my tea and stared at the shadowy outlines of the high hills ahead, I regretted my decision. Too
late now.
Shortly after leaving the restaurant we turned off the modern highway onto a side road that twisted across the hills. It got narrower and more winding, dipping and rising again between aisles of
birches whose black-striped trunks resembled processional pillars set up by a modern architect. Now and then the trees thinned out, giving views of upland meadows and barns like those of Austria
and Switzerland, with steeply pitched roofs and solid, windowless walls. We were high in the hills now, in the sater country – the upland farms, where the cattle graze from Midsummer
to Michaelmas. Huts and farmhouses, the heavy logs of their walls faded to a soft grey, clung tenaciously to the slopes.
Once Tomas had to pull far to the right to let a truck get past. We met little traffic; occasionally we passed hikers striding along with their backpacks jouncing. One turned and hoisted a
hopeful thumb. Tomas didn’t stop. The hitch-hiker had brown hair and a beard. So did the male half of the next pair we overtook. The girl’s bowed shoulders looked tired as she trudged
along behind her companion. I leaned forward, then remembered the car was wired for sound. ‘I don’t mind if you want to pick someone up, Tomas.’
The peaked cap didn’t turn. ‘No, miss. Not when you are here.’
Gus’s orders, no doubt. He must picture me as a fragile flower too. He was due for a shock when he saw me.
It was difficult to carry on a conversation with a disembodied voice and the back of a head. I was dying to pump Tomas about his employer, but doubted that he would indulge me. He didn’t
appear to be the gossipy type. I remembered a story I had once read that typified the sturdy independence of the people of this region. Some years back, when the crown prince was vacationing at
Lake Siljan, he recognized a farmer who had been part of a delegation that had come to the palace. Thinking to make a gracious gesture, he sent an equerry to command the farmer to an audience. The
farmer sent word back – he was sorry, but he had to go to town to lay in his winter supply of liquor. If His Highness was still around, he might be able to get over to see him Thursday or
Friday.
Between dense walls of fir and alder the road slipped down into a little clearing. A cluster of roofs and a bulbous wooden spire appeared, and Tomas said, ‘Karlsholm, miss. We are soon
home.’
I wondered where Gus’s house could be. There was no sign of a mansion pretentious enough to match the Mercedes. The village was small – thirty or forty houses, a church, and a few
larger structures that might have been public buildings. We passed through Karlsholm in about a minute and a half, even at a decorous pace, and climbed again. The car crested a low ridge.
Below lay the lake, almost as symmetrical in reality as it had been on the map – a steel-grey coin, dropped carelessly from an Ice Giant’s pocket, encircled by sombre groves and
backed by the misty shapes of high mountains. But the map had not shown the island. It was shaped like a lopsided triangle, and at one end of it rose the black metal roof and white walls of a large
house. Like the kings of Sweden, Gus had built his castle on his own private island.
Tomas stopped the car by a building near a small quay. It appeared to be a combination garage and boathouse, with a gas pump and shop. Sheltered by the
historian, not a centrefold.
As I was saying, I had decided it would be easier to convince Cousin Gus and let him argue with the cops, especially since I wasn’t absolutely certain I was right. My reasoning made good
sense to me, but I had very little solid evidence with which to back it up. All the same, as I sipped my tea and stared at the shadowy outlines of the high hills ahead, I regretted my decision. Too
late now.
Shortly after leaving the restaurant we turned off the modern highway onto a side road that twisted across the hills. It got narrower and more winding, dipping and rising again between aisles of
birches whose black-striped trunks resembled processional pillars set up by a modern architect. Now and then the trees thinned out, giving views of upland meadows and barns like those of Austria
and Switzerland, with steeply pitched roofs and solid, windowless walls. We were high in the hills now, in the sater country – the upland farms, where the cattle graze from Midsummer
to Michaelmas. Huts and farmhouses, the heavy logs of their walls faded to a soft grey, clung tenaciously to the slopes.
Once Tomas had to pull far to the right to let a truck get past. We met little traffic; occasionally we passed hikers striding along with their backpacks jouncing. One turned and hoisted a
hopeful thumb. Tomas didn’t stop. The hitch-hiker had brown hair and a beard. So did the male half of the next pair we overtook. The girl’s bowed shoulders looked tired as she trudged
along behind her companion. I leaned forward, then remembered the car was wired for sound. ‘I don’t mind if you want to pick someone up, Tomas.’
The peaked cap didn’t turn. ‘No, miss. Not when you are here.’
Gus’s orders, no doubt. He must picture me as a fragile flower too. He was due for a shock when he saw me.
It was difficult to carry on a conversation with a disembodied voice and the back of a head. I was dying to pump Tomas about his employer, but doubted that he would indulge me. He didn’t
appear to be the gossipy type. I remembered a story I had once read that typified the sturdy independence of the people of this region. Some years back, when the crown prince was vacationing at
Lake Siljan, he recognized a farmer who had been part of a delegation that had come to the palace. Thinking to make a gracious gesture, he sent an equerry to command the farmer to an audience. The
farmer sent word back – he was sorry, but he had to go to town to lay in his winter supply of liquor. If His Highness was still around, he might be able to get over to see him Thursday or
Friday.
Between dense walls of fir and alder the road slipped down into a little clearing. A cluster of roofs and a bulbous wooden spire appeared, and Tomas said, ‘Karlsholm, miss. We are soon
home.’
I wondered where Gus’s house could be. There was no sign of a mansion pretentious enough to match the Mercedes. The village was small – thirty or forty houses, a church, and a few
larger structures that might have been public buildings. We passed through Karlsholm in about a minute and a half, even at a decorous pace, and climbed again. The car crested a low ridge.
Below lay the lake, almost as symmetrical in reality as it had been on the map – a steel-grey coin, dropped carelessly from an Ice Giant’s pocket, encircled by sombre groves and
backed by the misty shapes of high mountains. But the map had not shown the island. It was shaped like a lopsided triangle, and at one end of it rose the black metal roof and white walls of a large
house. Like the kings of Sweden, Gus had built his castle on his own private island.
Tomas stopped the car by a building near a small quay. It appeared to be a combination garage and boathouse, with a gas pump and shop. Sheltered by the
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