CH 161

With our room service order placed, another dozen cookies practically shoved into my grasp, and an hour before Bodil was to arrive, Phelan stood staring out the window facing the busy street below.

"Are you looking for her?" I asked.

"Bodil? No."

"Myrna," I answered.

Phelan turned away from the window and clasped his hands behind his back. "I don't know what I am looking for, Kire," he answered sullenly.

"How did you meet her again?" I asked as I rummaged through my trunk. Tuning the piano proved to be a much dirtier job than I'd originally anticipated, and I was nearly out of clean clothes to last the two full days we had remaining. "You were quite young, yes?"

"She's the woman with the pony," he said. "I believe I told you this previously, didn't I?"

"Briefly."

"It was not long before you were born," Lan said. "Late September or early October as I recall the leaves changing colors and she was dressed warmly when she would come for me."

"Come for you?" I questioned.

He fell silent for a moment. I stepped out of my trousers and peered out the open door to see him looking out at the street again.

"Yes, she would come with her cart driven by a tan pony with a blond mane and take me back to her house. Or at least someone's house. Right now I'm not certain where she took me, but it felt like a very long ride down a tree-lined road." He paused. "Of course in Conforeit, there are really only two roads and both are tree-lined, so I suppose it was either toward the village or further out where Alak lived," he rambled.

"And you rode around in a cart with her?"

"To a cabin or perhaps an inn. Christ, I was three at the time and…" He paused, his lips parted. "I don't recall what she looked like, but I remember her brightly colored shawl and this enormous bed where she would allow me to nap in the sunlight. And then she would carry me back outside, place me into the cart, and I would return home."

"It sounds like a good memory."

"Other than the part where she left me again." Lan shrugged it off, but his expression was strained, and despite his best efforts to remain emotionless, it was evident that he had not wanted to be returned home. "Sometimes I think it was too good to be true, and I've grappled with the idea that I'd made up the memory. I suppose at least by name she was real. Perhaps she will remember what truly happened."

I smiled to myself, thinking of the times Madeline had kept me company shortly after I had come to live within the Opera House. It was good to have someone who looked after me despite being on the cusp of manhood. I enjoyed her doting upon me, which had been a foreign concept.

"I would like to meet Myrna," I said, examining the mask in my hand, debating whether I preferred the flesh toned or white one that was on the nightstand. "If it's possible."

"I would as well."

I nodded in approval. "Then I will ask Bodil if we can arrange something for tomorrow."

Lan sighed.

"Is there something wrong?"

"Erik, I know I said that I wanted nothing to do with Bjorn's side of the family, but this woman, our grandmother…if what I recall is correct, then she was not like him. How she raised such a cruel man is beyond me, but…but I would like to see her. Perhaps for the last time."

He turned onto his heel and briskly walked out my suite and into his own. As had become commonplace, we settled into my brother's bed and stretched out with our respective stack of telegrams on the nightstands beside us and a towering plate of cookies between us.

"Have you tried one of these?" I asked, nodding toward the plate.

"No."

"For simple sugar cookies, they're very good."

"At some point, I expect we will be in the midst of conversation and you will suddenly turn into a mound of sugar, Kire."

"It hasn't happened yet."

"Yet being the operative word." He held up one of the telegrams and glanced at me. "Please tell me Alex wrote to you about the toad."

We had both started reading my son's telegrams first as they were by far the most entertaining.

"Phonecians," I answered.

"Ah. May I read yours once you are finished?"

"Of course. We can exchange."

Once we both finished chuckling at Alex's stories, we switched telegrams and continued through the pile.

"How is my dearest sister Julia?" Lan asked. "Or I suppose I should say sister-in-law now that we apparently have a half-sister."

"Julia is well." I lowered my telegram. "I'm still in shock that we have a sister. A younger sister. Did you have any idea?"

"No, but quite frankly I'm not surprised. Bjorn had a reputation for drinking and wandering. I suppose I'm shocked I haven't discovered several half-siblings pounding on the door in Conforeit, demanding their share of a non-existent family fortune."

The drinking part I knew quite well. The infidelity wasn't a surprise, but I'd never imagined it would have resulted in another child.

"And, I might add, she seems rather unpleasant," Phelan muttered.

"Lan," I warned.

"I cannot believe you don't seem to think the same. She had the audacity to nearly flatten us both with her cart and then blame us for her terrible skills handling a horse."

"As I have said previously, she is a female version of you."

Lan scoffed. "Are you saying I'm unpleasant, Kire?"

"I'm saying the two of you look and sound the same. Take that as you will."

"Well, people seem to think you and I have a strong resemblance, so take that as you will."

"You are my beloved brother. Why would I not wish for the comparison?"

Phelan glared at me from the corner of his eye. "Do not attempt to win me over with flattery," he grumbled.

"I've already won you over with my natural charm," I sardonically answered.

"I believe you and Bodil are the two who share similar traits as you are being excessively unpleasant right now."

I ignored his combative tone and turned the telegram over, reading the rest of what my wife had to say. "Julia said her sisters are coming for a visit next month."

"Have you met her sisters previously?"

I shook my head. "I met her eldest brother before we were married."

I shuffled through the telegrams, feeling Phelan still studying me.

"I don't believe I've heard you mention your brother-in-law previously. Where does he reside?"

"Italy. And he would not refer to me as family."

"I take it her brother did not approve of the marriage?"

I couldn't tell if he was making light conversation, but I still shook my head and decided against elaborating on what had transpired when Max paid a visit. "No, he did not."

"Oh. Well, then I already dislike him."

"What did Marco say?" I asked, no longer desiring to speak of Max Falchetti.

Lan sat up straighter. "A few suggestions for where to dine at the Exposition, he has a new sketch he would like me to critique if I have time, and a friend of mine is displeased I ignored her the last few times I came into town."

"A woman?" I asked, raising a brow.

Phelan gave me a significant look. "A young woman who is no different to me than Elizabeth, if you must know."

I nodded. "It sounds like you'll be in town for a week visiting then."

"Indeed, Kire. And then the Free University will dismiss me for taking so much time off at the start of the year," he grumbled, turning the telegram over. "And lastly–"

There was a knock on the door and both of us froze, exchanging looks.

"She's early," Phelan said, nodding in approval.

I slid my legs off the side of the bed, donned my flesh-colored mask, and walked to the door, finding Harald with a cart containing three silver-domed plates.

"Your dinner, Herr Kire," he said. "May I serve you at the table?"

"That will not be necessary," I replied. "We're awaiting an extra guest this evening."

"Ah yes, I see there are three meals. Very well, Herr Kire. Have you and Herr Kimmer decided when you'd like your baths drawn?"

I turned, looking over my shoulder to consult my brother.

"Eight," Phelan answered. "Lemon and lavender, if possible."

I translated the instructions to Harald, who readily nodded, pushed the cart into the suite, and went on his way. The moment I closed the door and turned, there was another knock.

Bodil offered a tight smile once I opened the door. She inhaled deeply as she stepped inside and removed her gloves.

"Am I interrupting?"

"Not at all. We ordered supper," I said. "If you would care to join us, we have a third meal."

"How thoughtful. What was your name again?"

"I am Erik," I said.

"Erik and Phelan," she said. "Forgive me, I do not recall hearing Gran mention you previously," she said to me as I escorted her fully inside.

"Because he wasn't born yet," Phelan said, his tone harsher than necessary.

Bodil appeared undeterred by his harsh manner of speaking and looked around my brother's suite. "I've never stepped foot inside this part of the hotel. It's quite modern," she said to herself.

"Were you expecting a cave?" Phelan asked.

"No, of course not. A barn with a pile of straw fit for a boar seems more your style," she answered.

"I believe we will be more comfortable in my suite," I said before their words became increasingly heated.

"You have separate suites?" Bodil asked.

"Phelan is quite thoughtful in every detail for our holiday," I replied. "He made certain we were both comfortable during our stay."

"How long are you visiting?"

"We have two days remaining," I answered.

"And what does Phelan do for a living that he can afford such luxury?" Bodil asked.

"I'm a professor at the Free University in Brussels."

"And he paints," I added.

"And I paint," Phelan agreed, arms crossed as he remained on the bed, obdurate as ever.

Bodil turned to face him. "You must be quite good at painting if you are able to afford such luxury."

Phelan shrugged. "Good enough for people to own some of my work."

"'Some of his work' is Phelan being quite modest," I added. "He has sold his paintings all over the world, and for quite impressive fees."

Bodil turned to face me. "And Erik? What is your occupation?"

"I'm a composer," I answered.

"Published composer," Phelan added.

Bodil looked me over with quite the scrutinizing gaze. "My apologies, I cannot say I've heard any of your music."

"You probably have," Phelan said under his breath as he slid off the edge of the mattress and joined us at the small table that served as a dining area.

"What would I have heard?"

"The Soldier and the Shell, Mauro and Jewel, The Fox Pursues–"

"By Erik Kimmer?" Bodil interrupted, narrowing her eyes.

"E.M. Kire," I answered.

Bodil blinked at me. "Kire? You're E.M Kire?"

I couldn't tell if her tone was one of surprise or if she found my words incredulous.

"Difficult to believe, isn't it?" Phelan said. "He certainly doesn't appear capable of creating musical masterpieces, does he?"

I cleared my throat and issued Phelan a warning look. "Are you an artist?" I asked Bodil, pulling out the chair for her to sit between us.

"Should I be?" she questioned.

"Probably not," Lan said. "The competition regarding who is the best artist in their preferred medium is already quite heated."

"Surely Erik is leading," Bodil said. "I've heard of him, but not you."

Phelan inhaled and smiled tightly, his annoyance quite evident to me.

"What did you order for us, Kire?" my brother asked.

"Stegt flæsk," Bodil said before I could reply. "A wonderful choice. You must know your Danish cuisine to have selected such an excellent dish."

It was the only item listed on the menu for supper, but I decided against admitting there was no other option.

One by one we uncovered our dishes. Bodil waited for us to nod in approval before she took a bite.

"Was our father an artist?" she asked after several moments of silence.

Phelan and I exchanged looks, silently deciding who would be the one to reply.

"Bjorn's inclinations were not toward artistic endeavors," my brother answered.

"What were his inclinations toward?" Bodil asked.

"Nothing good," Phelan muttered.

"How have you heard of my music?" I asked before Bodil could ask for an elaboration on our father.

Bodil eyed both me and Phelan with a bit of suspicion before she answered at last. "I've seen one of your operas."

I turned my head to the side, surprised by her comment. "Where? When?"

"Mauro and Jewel two months ago in Paris."

Lan and I exchanged looks. "You've been to Paris?" I asked.

Bodil furrowed her brow. "Do you think I am chained to a fence in Onkerat?"

"I was not insinuating that you were chained here," I said quite defensively.

"Why were you in Paris?" Lan asked.

Bodil slowly turned her attention toward Phelan and regarded him for a moment.

"Visiting."

The three of us fell into uncomfortable silence for what seemed like such an expansive amount of time that I had no idea how we would restart the conversation.

At last Bodil looked up and sniffed. "You share the same mother, yes? The Ostergaard girl?"

Phelan's expression darkened. "Her name was Gyda Ostergaard," he replied defensively. "Daughter of Toke and Hilda."

"Was she artistic?" Bodil asked.

"Our mother played the piano," I answered.

"You inherited your talent from her, then, I assume?"

"Or we were blessed by angels sent from heaven," Lan muttered under his breath. "Truly, what does it matter?"

Bodil's posture stiffened, her fingers curling around the knife she held in her right hand. "If you do not want me here, then say so."

Phelan's expression immediately sobered and he briefly looked away from our half-sister. "My apologies if I have been less than cordial," he said under his breath.

"You have been far less than cordial," she replied. "You've been quite intolerable since the moment we met."

"I suppose I don't care for being trampled by a horse and rolled over by a cart," Phelan replied.

A knock at the door thankfully ended the conversation. I rose from my seat immediately and briskly walked the length of the room, grateful for whomever had come calling at our suite.

The moment I opened the door, I found myself speechless. The woman who stood in front of me was tall, white-haired, and wrinkled, but quite sturdy in appearance.

She blinked at me, her eyes the same shade of gray as my brother's, her nose thin and elegant, and cheekbones high and sharp. There was something soft yet regal about her, and I couldn't help but think she reminded me of my uncle.

"Myrna?" I questioned.

Her smile was close-lipped, but immediate. "Forgive me, but you are not Phelan," she said in Danish.

"No, I'm–"

Behind me, the table rattled. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Phelan immediately on his feet. When I turned back to the woman in the doorway, her eyes were locked on my brother, her expression unreadable.

"There he is," she whispered. "There he is at long last."

Phelan was at my side in an instant, his complexion drained of color and lips parted. "You haven't aged a day," he murmured. "Do you speak French? German?"

Myrna smiled back at him, her teeth slightly crooked and yellowed from age. Given that our father had been much older than our mother, I guessed our paternal grandmother must have been in her nineties.

"I speak both. And I must say, you have aged quite a bit," she said in perfect French.

I'd never seen my brother blush, but his cheeks reddened and he looked away. "Only slightly in forty years."

"Come inside," I offered. "Please, we would be honored for your company."

Her gray eyes settled on me, focusing on the mask. "Forgive me, but I do not know you."

"My brother," Phelan said before I could reply. He held out his right arm and guided Myrna into his suite. "My brother Erik."

"Ah." Myrna eyed me again before accepting Phelan's arm. "You were at the lemonade stand yesterday, the one within the train station."

"I was," Phelan answered, appearing both pleased and surprised. "You remember?"

She smiled back at him. "How could I forget such a distinguished and handsome man?"

When we returned to the table, Bodil was on her feet, her meal largely unfinished.

"Surely you are not leaving?" I asked.

She hesitated. "I would like a bit of fresh air."

I looked from her to Phelan and Myrna, who were both standing in close proximity to one another.

"I will step outside with you," I offered.

Bodil appeared disappointed, as I suspected she had every intention of not returning to the suite, but she shrugged and walked toward the door with me following behind her.

"Kire?" Phelan questioned.

"Air," I said over my shoulder. "We shall return shortly.'

Bodil made her way down the hall and steps quite briskly. I would have been directly behind her, but Harald scurried out from behind the desk and handed me two cookies wrapped in waxed paper.

"The very best cookies in all of Denmark, isn't that correct Froken Bodil?" Harald shouted to the woman who was already out the door.

Sweets in hand, I found myself jogging to keep up with her surprising speed.

"I should not have come here," Bodil said through her teeth. "A foolish mistake."

"I apologize if you have not felt welcomed," I said as we approached her horse and cart tied around the corner from the inn.

"Why would I feel welcomed by two men who have known each other since they were children?" Once the horse was untied from the wooden post where he'd been stationed, Bodil hefted herself up into the driver's seat. "I am little more than an outsider."

"That isn't true."

"Of course it is."

"Wait," I requested, stepping in front of the horse and around to the other side of the buggy, half-expecting to be stepped on at the very least or fully trampled by the steed once its master took up the reins. "My God, would you wait a moment?"

Without thinking, I hauled myself into the seat beside her, earning a look of disbelief.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

"You said you were going out for fresh air and I intend to accompany you, as any gentleman would do."

"Gentleman indeed."

Teeth gritted, she gave the reins a slap and the horse jumped forward, rounding the corner with tremendous speed. The wheels on Bodil's side of the buggy bumbled over the curb, jostling the two of us back and forth quite violently. I managed to hold onto the side of the buggy with my right hand and the cookies wrapped waxed paper with my left.

"Very well then," she said under her breath. "Air it is."

The horse tossed its head back and broke into a steady canter, heedless of the narrow road lined with carts, wagons, and pedestrians shrieking to move out of the way.

"You are certainly…" Reckless, impulsive, lacking all sense…clearly related to me and to Phelan… "Quite spirited."

Bodil shot me a look. "I was not expecting a guest."

"What were you expecting?"

"I was expecting you to fall out of the buggy as we rounded the corner."

I raised a brow. "You wish for me to be injured?"

The town streets gave way to the country road, the shops and bustling streets replaced by fields and homes behind the green landscape dotted with wildflowers.

"I didn't want…" She sighed in frustration. "I didn't want you injured. I simply didn't want you coming with me."

"May I inquire as to what I have done to earn your wrath?"

"You may not."

I took a breath, annoyed by her childish response. "Is it because you believe Phelan and I have known each other all of our lives and therefore you could not possibly relate to either of us?"

"Because I have spent my entire life never having anything in common with anyone," she snapped. "I am 'That Kimmer girl'. The one abandoned by her mother and never knowing anything about the man behind my surname. I have lived a life of shame. There is no need for us to pretend we are family united. I am well aware of when I am not wanted."

The horse seemed fueled by her rage, his hooves pounding the dirt in thunderous claps that sent plumes of dirt around us while the buggy violently rocked back and forth.

"Stop the damned horse!" I shouted. "Before you break one of the wheels and kill all three of us."

Without prompting on her part, the horse slowed its pace. The sudden loss of momentum nearly sent me flying out of my seat and I cursed under my breath, annoyed with how the quest for fresh air had gone thus far.

"Your hostility is quite impressive," I said once the danger of losing control seemed to be past us. "A trait you undoubtedly share with the brothers you have no desire to know."

"Nothing could be further from the truth."

"Is that so?"

"You seem quite passive," Bodil argued. "Passive and sensible."

I fought the urge to burst out laughing at her assessment. I couldn't imagine what Madeline would have said in reply to Bodil's observation of my temperament.

"Merely self-preservation," I replied. "And I will have you know that before you arrived this evening, I attempted to defend your horse driving skills, but I believe at this time I shall retract that statement."

"I am a fine driver," she argued.

"Debatable," I said under my breath.

"And yet you are still alive to complain."

I chuckled to myself at her impetuous observation.

"Why are you amused?" she demanded.

"Because you are quite amusing."

She snorted at me. With a swish of his tail, the horse did the same.

"You and Phelan are practically the same disagreeable person. It must be a very strong family trait."

"We are not the same…" She looked at me from the corner of her eye.

I inhaled and looked at the wax paper, amazed that both cookies appeared to be intact despite the jostling about. In silence I broke off a piece of one and offered it to Bodil, who refused to meet my eye.

"And you are not my brothers," she said firmly. "You are…are half of a sibling and nothing more."

"Do you have other siblings? Full or otherwise?" I asked.

She shook her head, still refusing to meet my eye.

"I thought I was an only child until this year," I said while the horse leisurely walked along the road, ears flicking back and forth.

"How could that possibly be?" Bodil asked, her tone still harsh as she turned and glared at me. "You are clearly quite familiar with one another."

"That is quite the compliment, but not accurate."

"I do not believe you."

I sighed, growing frustrated by her insistence to remain combative. "We were separated as young children, and I had no memory of him," I answered.

She feigned disinterest, preferring instead to hold her chin up and stare at the road ahead.

"I didn't believe him when he said we were brothers," I continued. "I didn't believe we could possibly be related to one another, but…as my wife pointed out, we share many similar traits."

"How unfortunate," she dryly replied.

I huffed at her words. "That was how I felt at first," I admitted. "Phelan comes off a bit strong at first, but he's…he's Lan."

Bodil turned to face me, her expression still indicating she was annoyed. "Lan?"

"An affectionate nickname by a three-year-old who couldn't pronounce his older brother's full name."

I offered Bodil the cookie again, but she shook her head.

"You have no affinity for sweets?" I questioned, feeling quite offended by her reaction.

"Should I?"

"If you are like me, then yes."

She stared at the waxed paper. "Do I want to be like you?"

"Probably not," I admitted.

"No?"

I shook my head. "I would advise against it."

Bodil reached into her skirt pocket and paused, her fingers curling around something beneath the fabric. "I've met Phelan before," she said. "Twice, actually."

I narrowed my eyes, gaze pinned on her hand still concealed within her pocket. "During his previous visits to Skyderhelm?"

She nodded and pulled a small card from her pocket and showed it to me. The edges were bent, the card itself creased down the middle from being folded in half.

"He's sketched your portrait?" I said, looking from the card to her.

"A few years ago." She smiled at her likeness. "This took him all of fifteen minutes. Can you believe it? A full portrait drawn in a matter of minutes and quite perfectly at that."

"You were already aware of his occupation, then?"

"I thought it was a hobby, not a means of supporting himself." She returned the portrait to her pocket and frowned. "He barely charges what the paper and graphite must be worth. He is charitable, not making a living."

"Did you know you were…?"

She swallowed. "There was something familiar about him," she answered. "I'm embarrassed to say I thought he was quite handsome, but I think it's because I saw my own features in him." She shot me a stern look. "And you must swear you will not speak a word of this to him."

"I promise I will not inflate his ego any further," I vowed.

"Your brother visits twice a year, spring and fall," she said. "Every time he is here, he will sketch for people and it seems like everyone in the area comes out to marvel at his talent. The Artist, they say, The Artist has returned. That is how they refer to him."

"He is not known by name?"

"He does not give his name or sign his work. But one day after he had returned home, Fru Ostergaard told the hotel owners that her grandson had made portraits of her children based on her descriptions of them. That was how I knew for certain that he was...theirs."

"Have you confronted Hilda?" I asked.

"I have no dealings with your grandmother."

I knew my features hardened defensively based on Bodil's expression.

"That is to say, your grandmother will not have dealings with me, privately or professionally."

"Professionally? In what capacity?"

"She will not sell me butter or milk."

"Why not?"

"Because I am 'That Kimmer Girl'," Bodil answered bitterly.

I looked away from her. "Your surname makes your money no good?"

"My surname makes everything about me despicable."

"Surely you have other channels for purchasing dairy goods."

Bodil looked at me from the corner of her eye. "The owners of the Swan purchase the goods I require on my behalf."

I took another bite of the cookie. "I suppose it would go unnoticed with their orders for the bakery."

"It isn't their bakery," she corrected me, her tone still harsh. "It is mine."

I immediately met her eye, then took another bite of the cookie. "Your bakery?" I questioned, allowing the chocolate to melt on my tongue. There was a bit of tangy aftertaste that followed the sweetness of the milk chocolate that I couldn't identify. "Did you make these?"

A shadow of a smile played on the corners of her mouth. "Every morning at four I start the breakfast pastries, and by six I make the cookies and confectionery sweets for the day," she said quite proudly. "Everything is made and measured by my own recipes, including that cookie."

"A secret recipe?" I questioned, raising a brow.

"Of course it's a secret. I can't have everyone in the vicinity making my cookies."

"They're quite possibly the best cookies I've ever consumed and that is certainly saying a lot."

Bodil's smile widened. "Are you an expert on chocolate chip cookies, Monsieur Kire?"

I inhaled and unwrapped the paper. "Mademoiselle, I am quite the connoisseur of all sweets from honey cakes to croissants and every type of cookie imaginable. Are you familiar with Stoher's?"

"The bakery?"

I nodded.

"I've visited previously," she said.

"One of the oldest bakeries in Paris could learn a thing or two from you."

Bodil's lips parted, her cheeks turning crimson.

"Your art is beyond comparison," I praised.

"My art?"

"Creating something so enjoyable must be considered a form of art."

For the first time since we had met, Bodil allowed her shoulders to drop and posture to relax. "My art," she said to herself, smiling fully. "I've never thought of baking as art."

"Perhaps I have been a bit hasty and further tasting is necessary to make certain these cookies do indeed qualify as art."

Bodil chuckled to herself. "Is that so?"

"One can never be too certain."

"You have received cookies daily for your stay, have you not?"

"A dozen every time we return to our room," I admitted, taking another bite. "These are sweet, but there is something more to them that I cannot identify."

She nodded once. "Perhaps there is."

"I must know what it is."

Her brow arched. "As I said, a secret recipe."

"One you would keep from the famous composer?"

"Your talent with stringing notes together has no sway on the secrecy of my goods."

"Then perhaps I shall have to order several dozens sent via post to Paris. Weekly, of course, so that I shall not forget the taste."

The buggy approached an intersection of roads and the horse paused. I was absolutely certain that we were nowhere near my grandparents' dairy, but the landscape of endless, flat fields all looked the same.

"E.M. Kire," Bodil said, briefly looking at me. She exhaled. "The famous composer, eating my cookies."

"Bodil Kimmer, the best baker in all of Denmark, graciously showing the composer the sights in…wherever we are currently stationed."

"We are in Onkerate," she answered, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "That is my home," she said, nodding toward the street to the left where three separate houses stood separated by wide fields.

The horse slowly stepped forward, the buggy building momentum with each turn of the wheels.

"If I ask you something, E.M. Kire, will you answer me honestly?" Bodil asked.

"To the best of my ability," I replied. "And you must call me by my given name. We are…

Her gaze hardened, her defiance unpenatrable.

"We are hopefully on pleasant terms where formality is not necessary," I finished.

"Erik," she said, "what type of man was Bjorn Kimmer?"

It wasn't a question I wished to answer at all, least of all honestly.

"Myrna has not spoken of him to you?"

"She has barely said a word of the two sons who set off to sail when they were still very much boys. It pains her to utter their names."

"What about your mother?"

Bodil glared at me. "I've seen her a handful of times and we do not waste words speaking of the man who put his seed into her womb. Therefore, I will ask you again, Erik Kire, what type of man was Bjorn Kimmer?"

My heart was heavy with the unspoken grief that typically accompanied thoughts of my father. Reconciliation was not in my future, and I doubted even if my parents still lived they would have given me the opportunity to earn their love.

"He was not the sort of person I wished to mirror in raising my own children."

"Why not?"

"He lacked warmth," I replied carefully, feeling as though I described my father in a way that he did not deserve.

"Because of…" Bodil paused, her grey eyes studying my flesh-colored mask.

Instinctively I touched the edge covering my jaw, making sure the mask aligned with my face. "In part," I admitted. "But he was not a kind individual."

"He was cruel, then?"

I looked away from Bodil, from the half-sister whom I had not known existed, who had been spared meeting the nightmare of a man who had sired three children and put forth his greatest effort in physically, mentally and emotionally destroying two of them while somehow managing to still damage the child he'd never met.

"His affection was reserved for the bottle, with which he had a most passionate affair," I said, leaving it at that.

Bodil remained silent, her expression contemplative.

"I've dreamed of meeting him," she said, her voice low. "I've dreamed of him walking into the bakery early in the morning, while I am alone, and telling me that my pastries are the sweetest he's ever tasted, the decorative flowers the most perfect he's ever seen, the ribbons so beautiful it would make a grown man weep. He flatters me because I am his and he has longed to be my father."

Despite the number of nightmares I'd had since childhood, the memories of being beaten to the point of losing consciousness and humiliated beyond all reason, there were still the occasional dreams of that same terrible man giving up the bottle that fueled his rage for being a father, one who allowed me to ride on his shoulders, who tucked me into bed and cut my supper for me when I could not muster the skills needed to hold a fork and knife.

I inhaled sharply, certain that those fond memories, the ones that seemed to slip away before I woke, were not Bjorn at all, but memories of my brother providing the only comfort I'd ever experienced. The parent I had desired, the compassion that I had needed from my first breath, was undoubtedly my vague recollections of Phelan.

"What is it?" Bodil questioned.

I shook my head. "I sincerely wish your dream could have been a reality."

She continued to stare at me for a long moment, eyes filled with remorse. "I still wish I could have met him, to know him for myself."

I could only imagine the deep sense of disappointment, the years of regret that would have followed if she had met our father.

The horse trudged forward, the town of Ketterhelm and its train station coming into view, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun.

"Have you had enough fresh air?" I asked, once again offering her a piece of the two cookies.

Bodil inhaled, still refusing the cookie. "I believe for now I shall return to my kitchen and create my art."