Page 250 of These Tears

‘The silver too. It was her mother’s, and her mother’s before that,’ she adds. ‘This was made for Frida.’

Every woman seems to hear the weight of the name. Even Inga goes still. The rush in my veins falters for a second, tripping over the sudden quiet.

‘Who is… Frida?’ I ask quietly.

Sunna’s hand remains on the fabric, her fingers holding it as if calming something that still lives in the seams.

The cousins look at each other, then at Inga. And I suddenly feel as if I’ve failed basic maths.

‘My youngest sister. Jakob’s mother.’

Sunna smooths her palm over the clothes, thumb catching briefly on the embroidered trim. ‘You do not have to wear it but… we would be honoured if you chose to.’

The hush closes in on me. Nothing but the crackle of fire rises from it.

Nearly two years. That’s how long I’ve known Elias. Seven months spent beside him, sharing a bed, a table and pieces of ourselves neither of us had given anyone else.

And I did not even know his mother’s name.

I had only ever pictured him like something made by prison, violence and Arthur Crane’s house of horrors.

Before I can rearrange my face into something less exposed, Inga’s eyes soften with the uncomfortable knowledge that she has just watched a window open in my head and found the room beyond it empty.

She reaches for the fabric and unfolds it carefully, its brightness piling down her arms in a rush of colour.

For a moment, she simply looks at it, thumb brushing over the trim with a fondness that makes my throat tighten.

Then she steps closer and holds it against my front as if measuring where another woman’s history might sit on my shoulders.

‘Aunt Frida was seventeen when Crane came here,’ she says quietly.

Sunna looks away and begins a slow half-circle around the fire, her fingers worrying at the edge of her sleeve as Inga continues.

‘They said he was much older. A rich foreigner. Beautiful, some would argue. But rich enough to make people listen when they should have told him to leave.’ Inga’s mouth twists, but her hands remain gentle on the gákti.

‘She was lovely,’ Sunna murmurs as her eyes take in the dancing flames. ‘Stubborn. Young enough for Arthur to make possession look like devotion. Some men do not fall in love. They acquire.’

Sunna looks at the fabric as Inga presses it down my side and lets me hold it over my chest. It feels too heavy in my hands. But it’s not just the weight of it that pulls me down.

‘He never told me the story,’ I whisper. Saying at least one truth aloud makes me feel a fraction better. But only a very small fraction.

Inga offers another weak smile. ‘Jakob was two when she died. She drowned.’ Her gaze keeps mine captive. ‘When he was little, Frida agreed to let Arthur take him to England for a visit.’ Her brows furrow as she offers the delicate memory a silent breath. ‘He was supposed to bring him back.’

The dark-haired cousin lowers herself onto a wooden chair, sighing. ‘She tried to go after him, but he had money and solicitors. Documents claiming she was unstable. Every letter became evidence against her. Every attempt to reach her son became proof that she was irrational.’

‘She became ill after that.’ Sunna’s gaze fixes on the smoke rising towards the opening overhead. ‘When she left the house that night, we found her coat near the lake in the morning. They found her three days later.’

I swallow the horror forming in my throat.

I don’t ask about the open wound. I feel as if the sky would come down and crush me if I did.

‘He just took him?’ I ask instead. Whenever Elias’ father came up in conversations, it was never with fondness.

‘He used Jakob to try to force her into living with him,’ another cousin puts in. Mee, they call her, but I can’t pronounce her full name. ‘He told her she would only see Jakob if she came to England.’

‘That was my fault,’ Sunna says solemnly.

‘No, mamma…’ Inga rounds a chair and embraces her mother from behind. ‘You knew he wasn’t a good man, and you tried to keep her in a safe circle.’