Fortunately, Eftershom was little more than a village with a single road running through it, and Mia’s description—“a robin’s egg”—aptly described the bright blue little cottage built into the side of a hill.
A light had been left on for me, and I’d barely parked in the driveway before Johan Nordin came out of the house to greet me. He offered to carry Hanna in, but when he saw me lift her up with ease, he stepped aside.
“My wife is asleep,” he whispered as he held the front door open for me.
I nodded, and he directed me to a small guest room off the entry. I laid her down and pulled the covers up over her.
“Thank you again for driving all this way,” Johan said, speaking in a low hushed voice so as not to disturb Hanna. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be, and that’s no good for all that driving.”
Small oval glasses sat on the end of his nose, and he readjusted them as he grinned at me. It was a thin but cheerful smile, buried in a bushy silver-streaked beard that matched his thick head of hair.
“It’s no problem,” I reassured him.
“I know that you’ve had a long drive,” he said as he led me away from Hanna’s room. “I certainly appreciate if you want to lie down and get some rest. But if you’re anything like me and need a moment to unwind first, I ought to let you know that I’ve just poured myself a glass of wine in the study, and you’re more than welcome to join me.”
“I always have trouble falling asleep, so that sounds great, actually.”
“Wonderful.” His smile deepened, and he led me toward the keyhole door at the end of the hall. The door was open a crack, and through it warm amber light danced and weaved, casting inviting shadows.
It was a tower of a room, really—round and rather narrow but stretching up for what seemed like miles. Bookcases curved along the walls, with every inch filled. A kerosene lamp glowed brightly on a drink cart where a decanter of wine sat next to two glasses.
The study smelled of wood (oak, maybe? sandalwood?) and old books and fresh dirt. When he handed me the glass of wine, the rich scent of grapes filled the air, giving the room a heady earthy sense.
He sat down in a distressed leather chair and motioned to the cushioned bench of a built-in nook in the bookcases. “Go on, make yourself comfortable.”
“I’ve been sitting in the car all day, so it’s nice to stretch my legs a bit.” I took a sip from the wine and languidly walked his room, admiring all the old leather-bound books.
“How are things for Hanna back at home?” Johan asked.
“Good. She seems happy. She has lots of friends, and a pony she adores.” I looked over my shoulder at him and laughed. “I’m sure you’ll hear all about it while she’s here.”
He chuckled warmly. “I hope so. And her family treats her well?”
“Yes, of course. I mean, it can be chaotic there with all the kids, but her brothers and sisters are crazy about her.”
“Good, good.” He stared down thoughtfully at his wine, swirling it around in his glass. “I always knew that Mia would be an excellent mother. My son chose well in that regard.”
I pointed to a picture on the mantel above the fireplace. “Is this him here?”
“Yes, that’s my son Nikolas with my wife Sarina, two years before he died.”
It was a photograph of a woman—sharp, severe, brittle, like shattered glass—and a young man around my age, maybe even younger. Under a mop of wild curls and a constellation of freckles, he had a toothy grin.
“Hanna looks like him,” I commented.
He smiled wistfully. “She does. She seems to be far more headstrong than he ever was, but maybe that’s for the best.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
Johan waved his hand vaguely. “He got swept up into the whole tracker thing, tracking changelings, bringing them home, protecting the realm. That’s what got him dragged away from Eftershom and out to…” He trailed off and let a heavy silence hang in the air. “Well, out to where he died,” he finished finally, and took a long drink of his wine.
“I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. “It’s not a thing that anyone ever really gets over, losing their only child, but time has a way of making it easier to breathe.”
I scanned the shelves around us, looking for anything to change the subject. All I wanted was to unwind after a long day, not make an old man rehash painful memories.
“All these books, are you a writer?” I asked lamely.
“A professor and a historian, actually,” he said with some pride. “Eftershom has one of the largest libraries in the entire Trylle kingdom.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Really?”
He chuckled at my surprise. “Yes, it seems unbelievable that such a tiny community in the middle of nowhere would hold so much of the Trylle history, but that’s precisely the reason why it is. The palace has been burned and ransacked a hundred times, but out here it’s quiet and safe.”
“Is that why the town was settled in the first place?” I asked.
“No, nothing that logical.” He shook his head. “It was just that they’d gone far enough. That’s where the name actually comes from. When the leader set up camp, one of the stuffy royal Markis asked, ‘Why do we stop here?’ And the leader answered, ‘Eftersom vi har gått tillräckligt långt,’ which roughly translates to, ‘Because we have gone far enough.’”
I laughed. “I suppose that’s as good a reason as any.”
As I walked around the room, admiring the collection of old books and talking with Johan, my eyes kept being drawn back to one. It was a bit thinner than most of the books, with a faded gray cover, but a gilded symbol on the spine kept catching the firelight. Despite the frayed binding, the symbol itself was crisp and intact, and there didn’t appear to be a title or even words of any kind on the cover.
I ran my fingers across it—the soft faded fabric shifted to cool smooth embossing. The symbol itself looked both vaguely familiar and like something I hadn’t seen before. It definitely had a Norse flair—maybe a variation of a valknut and a horned triskelion—but the inner swirls inside the triangles appeared to be leafy vines, a rather uncommon feature in ancient Scandinavia.
“What is this book?” I picked it up to show Johan, and the lightness of it surprised me. It was as if it were hollow, but when I lifted it, the vellum pages fanned out enough that I could see that it was indeed a real book.
Johan leaned forward and readjusted his glasses. When he saw what book I was holding, he smiled broadly. “Ah, I see you’ve discovered one of my favorites. Jem-Kruk and the Adlrivellir. Have you heard the tale of Jem-Kruk?”
“I don’t think so,” I said as I carefully put the book on the shelf.
“That’s not surprising.” He settled back into his armchair. “It’s an old bit of troll lore that has fallen out of favor. I’m sure you’re familiar with the troll creation myth?”
“The one with the Orm and all the animals?”
He nodded. “Precisely.”
Back in Förening, it was in one of the children’s books called Bedtime Stories for Trolls of All Ages, and I’d read it dozens of times to Liam and Emma when they were younger.