WoolfRenaissance

The storm had exhausted itself sometime before dawn. By morning, the wind had retreated into the forest, where it continued to trouble the upper branches of the fir trees, sending little clouds of snow drifting towards the ground. The road leading to the Gunther residence had been cleared during the night, although the horses still struggled occasionally upon the frozen earth beneath.

Selma had instructed Anders to stop the carriage some distance from the house. The coachman turned in his seat. "Your father instructed me to deliver you to the residence, Miss Selma."

"And you have done so admirably."

"The residence is another half-mile away."

"Then you have almost done so admirably."

Anders regarded her with the patient displeasure of a man who had spent thirty years discovering that the daughters of wealthy gentlemen possessed an inexhaustible talent for making simple arrangements unnecessarily complicated. "It is terribly cold outside."

"I have noticed."

"And the road is frozen."

"Then I shall endeavour not to fall upon it."

He descended reluctantly and opened the carriage door. Selma gathered her papers, stepped down, and instructed him to return at noon.

She waited until the carriage disappeared behind the bend before turning towards the narrow path that descended to the marina.

The water had not frozen entirely. Beyond the wooden landing stages, a dark channel remained open, disturbed occasionally by the wind. Several vessels lay motionless beneath their coverings, their ropes stiff with ice.

At the far end of the marina stood a small boathouse, its windows dark. Selma looked towards it. There was no one there.

She remained beside the fence for a while, then withdrew a folded piece of paper from the pocket of her coat. She read it once more. Seven words had been scrawled across it in a careless hand: Do not come to the marina again.

She folded the paper carefully and returned it to her pocket. Then she turned towards Annabel's house.

The residence appeared through the trees, its pale stone walls and tall windows reflecting the colourless morning. Smoke rose from two chimneys, and somewhere beyond the stables a servant was engaged in striking one piece of wood against another with an irritating regularity.

Annabel received her in the upstairs sitting room. A fire had been burning since breakfast, and the air carried the faint scent of lavender from a little porcelain bowl upon the mantelpiece. "Good heavens, Selma! Have you walked here?"

"Not from home, darling. I am not a pilgrim."

"Your cheeks are terribly red."

"Then they must be terribly beautiful."

Annabel smiled and returned to her chair. She had been occupied with a dress which her mother had commissioned from a seamstress in Oslo, but which, upon its arrival, had proved sufficiently disappointing to require several alterations. Having decided that the seamstress was incapable of understanding the simplest instructions, Annabel had undertaken to improve it herself, although the result was becoming increasingly doubtful.

Selma removed her gloves and placed them beside the fireplace. "Where is your mamma?"

"Visiting Mistress Hofferloff. She has taken Papa's carriage."

"And your papa?"

"In his study, I believe. He has been terribly occupied with correspondence since Wednesday."

Selma approached the window. "Have you heard anything from Oslo lately?"

"About what?"

"Nothing in particular."

Annabel studied her for a moment. "You are behaving strangely."

"Am I?"

"You have come here before eleven, asked where everybody is, and now wish to know what is happening in Oslo."

"Perhaps I am developing an interest in geography."

"You have never been particularly interested in geography. You are fond of mathematics."

"That is because most places insist upon remaining where they are, and Earth is finite. Mathematics is infinite." Selma smiled, but Annabel did not.

A short silence followed. Outside, a little cloud of snow fell from the branch of a fir tree and dispersed in the wind. Selma watched it until it disappeared against the whiteness of the meadow. "Have you ever been to Oslo?" she asked.

Annabel raised her eyes from her needlework. "I have only been to Oslo once, when we visited Aunt Dorothea in March of last year."

Selma frowned as she examined the dress upon Annabel's lap. "What pattern is that?" She gathered the papers she had brought with her and tied them together with a ribbon.

"Radial."

"I quite like the red threads against the black fabric, the way they converge towards the waist before radiating outward again."

"I don't particularly like them. When Mamma ordered it, I imagined it plain, without any embroidery."

Selma glanced outside. "Do you dress for anything other than funerals?" She slipped a hand into a concealed pocket amongst the folds of her own black bustle dress. "The frost last night seems to have subdued the storm a little. Papa calls the morning after a severe storm a wolfwalk."

"Is that a pocket telephone?"

"Yes." Selma examined the little device. "I call the morning after a harsh storm an angelstorm."

Annabel regarded the telephone with curiosity. "I had no idea your parents had bought you one."

"Papa did, although Mamma objected. He insists that I carry it with me at all times, for my own safety."

Annabel gave a faint sigh. "Papa has promised that, once the ice melts, we shall accompany Uncle Theodore on a trip to Stockholm in his rivercar."

Selma shrugged. "By all means, you must. Lake Mälaren is terribly beautiful in spring. We made the journey last year. When we returned, I told Papa that if he wanted me to graduate at the top of my class, he would have to promise that we should go again." She laughed.

"Do you know what his answer was?"

Annabel shook her head.

"He said, 'Young lady, you have just set the most unpleasant notcondition.'" She burst into laughter.

Annabel sighed. "Last week Mister Hlaing taught us that an object's surface area increases with the square of its size, whereas its volume increases with the cube."

"Kvadrat–kublagen!" Selma exclaimed. "Mister Hlaing possesses that rare gift of saying absolutely nothing comprehensible whilst employing an annoyingly large number of words. Apparently, he hopes to catapult his students from the very depths of ignorance to the summit of knowledge by the sheer force of speaking too much."

Annabel nodded once. "As Mister Daniel Johansson, Papa's associate, once put it, 'The man is the devil himself. In hell he ought to burn.'"

Selma laughed heartily. "I don't think he is evil. I think he simply feels uncomfortable amongst students. He certainly should never have become a teacher. I doubt even he knows what his true calling might be. Or his pursuit."

Annabel kept her eyes lowered, concentrating on her needlework. "I know. Ethel."

Selma erupted into uncontrollable laughter. When she had recovered sufficiently to speak, she said, "I have heard that he is not Spanish at all. He is Mon."

"I haven't the faintest idea what people that is, nor do I speak Spanish, but I know one expression in Spanish that describes precisely when he ought to leave the school grounds: semana la próxima."

"La próxima semana.” Selma laughed. “He isn't that bad. I remember how greatly we were amused during one of our calculus examinations last year. He was desperately resolved to discover just how profoundly we had devoted ourselves to studying at home. And so, whilst we were struggling to determine instantaneous acceleration by means of derivatives, he was reading 'The Raven' aloud to us."

Annabel did not laugh. Instead, she pressed her lips together and changed the subject. "I heard that your brother's birthday banquet was—" She hesitated for a moment. "—lavish."

"I didn't attend. I hate him, and I sincerely hope he marries Vera Hofferloff." Selma laughed again. "Mamma told me Uncle Fredrich organised the entire affair. He rented the whole reception room at Doverlane."

"Mr Ebenezer Scrooge Icestud?"

Selma laughed heartily. "He is indeed one of those rare adult men who manage to look as though they're approaching fifty whilst behaving as though they're twelve."

Annabel raised her eyes from her seaming. "Last week Papa received a visit from an American businessman, Mister Sebastien Wallant, and his sister, an aeroplane pilot named Mistress Judith Editlake. She was wearing gentlemen's trousers."

Selma approached the window. "I find women who pilot aeroplanes rather intriguing. It is a man's occupation, in my opinion, and I could never imagine myself doing it."

She fell silent, staring into the whiteness outside, which stretched across the meadow towards the distant forest.

"I haven't been sleeping well lately," she confessed. "I fear that Evelin Munrose's murder will remain unsolved."

Annabel lowered her needle."I've been concerned for my own safety lately, too, especially when I'm outdoors. I've become terribly apprehensive about travelling to school. Nevertheless, I always follow Papa's rule never to accept anything from strangers. Especially Coca-Cola."

Selma gave a faint, troubled smile, but the worry never left her eyes. "It will be six months in December."

Annabel lifted her eyes towards the window and glanced at the clouded sky. "My brother has a rather uncouth, although perhaps truthful, way of expressing much the same warning: 'Don't feed the conch.'"

Selma laughed heartily. "That overindulged young man who regards all girls and women as cheap and plentiful..."

"And yet every girl I know at school is swooning over him, especially since he joined the quartet."

Selma tipped her head sideways with a look of amused resignation. "Why wouldn't they? He is rather an appetiser."

Annabel frowned and raised an eyebrow. "Because he is in his mid-twenties, and they are all underage!"

"Their years are few, and their skin is taut, but their conch is wrinkled."

Annabel opened her mouth in dismay whilst Selma laughed convulsively.

"And this, my dear," Annabel observed, "is the inevitable result of being allowed to associate with ordinary folk."

Selma rolled her eyes and turned towards the window again. "Don't be diabolical."

"I am merely trying to make you aware of your possible decline. I fail to see why my reasoning should not be considered as righteous and credible—"

"As Father Marcus's?" Selma gave an amused snort. "He likes you, by the way. I've seen him watching you in church. He might make a rather... discreet... bunkmate."

Annabel stared silently at the ruined dress upon her lap and sighed.

"I wonder which of you would lie underneath," Selma continued.

Annabel shook her head. "There are rumours at school about your spending time at the marina."

Selma shrugged, her expression becoming even more unconcerned. "Darling, we should stick to the fax."

"Did you just say fax again?"

Selma remained silent.

Annabel passed the needle through the fabric and drew the thread towards herself. "Perhaps you might tell me what the facts are."

"Concerning what?"

"The marina."

"Well, it is a place where boats are kept. Occasionally, when the weather permits, they even leave."

"Selma."

"What?"

"I am being serious."

"That is precisely what troubles me."

Annabel laid her unfinished work aside.

"I have heard that you have been meeting someone there."

Selma smiled. "How very industrious of the school. I had no idea its educational responsibilities extended so far beyond the classroom."

"His name is Emil."

For the first time since entering the room, Selma appeared to lose her composure. It was scarcely perceptible: a brief movement of her eyes towards the door, followed by an equally brief hesitation before she spoke. "Emil is not a particularly uncommon name."

"Then you know him."

"I know a great many people."

"From the marina?"

"Some of them even possess the extraordinary ability to read and write."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Then don't be ridiculous yourself."

Annabel rose from her chair and approached the fireplace. "I have never understood why you must turn everything into a joke."

"Because the alternative is so frequently unpleasant."

"Not everything unpleasant can be avoided by laughing at it."

Selma regarded her quietly. "No," she said. "I am beginning to discover that."

Something in her voice caused Annabel to look up. "Has something happened?"

Selma shook her head. "Nothing."

"Then why are you so frightened?"

"I am not frightened."

"You have been staring out of that window ever since you arrived."

"Perhaps I am expecting an invasion."

"Selma."

"By the commoners, naturally. They have always been terribly inconsiderate about the weather. Especially in winter, when they insist upon freezing in their unheated homes."

Annabel did not smile.

Selma turned away and seated herself upon the little upholstered bench beside the window.

For some time neither spoke.

Then Annabel returned to her chair and picked up the dress. She examined a seam, found it unsatisfactory, and began carefully undoing several stitches. "Did you know Evelin?" she asked.

Selma looked towards her. "We went to the same school. Of course I knew her. Everyone in there knew her, including yourself."

"I mean, did you know her well?"

"Not particularly. She was older than us."

"By two years," Annabel remarked, nodding. "Papa says the police have been questioning people again."

Selma lowered her eyes. "Who told you that?"

"Papa."

"Did he say whom they questioned?"

"No. Why?"

"I was merely curious."

Annabel pulled a thread free. "Apparently they discovered something near the place where she was found."

"What?"

"I don't know."

Selma rose so abruptly that Annabel looked up in surprise. "Do you suppose your father would tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"What they discovered."

"Why should he?"

"Because I should like to know."

"Selma, you are being terribly peculiar."

Selma stood motionless for a moment. Then, with a little laugh that sounded quite unlike her usual laughter, she approached Annabel and examined the dress lying across her lap. "You have made a dreadful mess of that sleeve."

Annabel looked down.

"I have not."

"You have. It is longer than the other."

"It is not finished."

"Then I suppose there is still hope for it."

Annabel held the garment against herself and inspected its reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece.

"Do you really think so?"

"About the sleeve?"

"About the dress."

Selma considered it. "I think you ought to remove the red threads altogether."

"But you said you liked them."

"I do. I simply don't think they belong there."

Annabel looked at her reflection for another moment, then lowered the dress.

"Sometimes I cannot understand you at all."

"That is because you are forever trying to."

They both laughed, although Annabel's laughter was brief.

A servant knocked and entered carrying a tray with tea and little almond cakes. The girls resumed their places, and for several minutes their conversation returned to the more agreeable subjects of dresses, school, and the anticipated journey to Stockholm.

Selma ate two cakes, complained that they were excessively sweet, and immediately took a third.

Annabel watched her with amusement. "You have no principles whatsoever."

"I have several. None concerns almond cakes."

By noon the clouds had begun to separate, and a pale sunlight appeared upon the snow.

When the sound of carriage wheels came from the courtyard, Selma rose and collected her papers.

Annabel accompanied her downstairs. At the entrance, whilst the servant struggled with the heavy door, Annabel suddenly caught Selma by the wrist. "Selma."

"Yes?"

"Is Emil the boy you have been seeing?"

Selma looked at her for a moment.

"Yes."

Annabel seemed almost relieved by the admission. "Then why did you not simply say so?"

"Because you did not ask me whether I had been seeing him. You told me that people were talking about it."

"That is hardly a distinction."

"It is an enormous distinction."

Annabel sighed. "Is he respectable?"

Selma smiled faintly. "He is kind."

"That is not what I asked."

"I know."

Outside, Anders had already opened the carriage door. Selma stepped down onto the frozen gravel, then turned back. "Annabel, will you promise me something?"

"What?"

"If anyone asks whether I visited you this morning, tell them I arrived shortly before eleven."

"But you did."

"Yes," Selma replied, visibly reassured. "I did." She smiled, took a few steps back up to the doorway and kissed Annabel upon the cheek before hurrying towards the carriage.

Annabel remained in the doorway until the horses had disappeared beyond the trees.

Only when she returned upstairs did she notice that Selma had left one of her papers upon the little bench beside the window.

It was a sheet covered with mathematical calculations, most of which Annabel could not understand. Along the bottom, beneath a series of figures, Selma had written a single sentence: The current cannot have carried her that far.

Annabel read it twice.

Then she folded the paper and placed it inside the drawer of her writing desk, intending to return it when they next met.

By the afternoon, she had forgotten about it entirely.

As dusk fell, the storm began anew.

(To Be Continued)