Fiddling with Fate by Kathleen Ernst

Author:Kathleen Ernst
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mystery;mystery fiction;mystery novel;historical mystery;historical mystery novel;german;wisconsin;chloe ellefson;chloe ellefson novel;chloe ellefson series;CVR01152019
Publisher: Llewellyn Worldwide, LTD.
Published: 2019-08-15T16:20:44+00:00

Nineteen

Britta—March 1887

Britta put her hand on the corner cupboard, took a deep breath, and opened the door. And there it was: the handaplagg.

It was the first time she’d opened the cupboard since her mother Torhild had died four months earlier. Erik had raided their father’s cupboard right after the funeral, finding little beyond some tobacco and spare socks and Halvor’s knife. Britta had been loath to invade Torhild’s private cupboard, as if opening the door would finalize the loss.

But today, she needed to see the hand cloth that had been passed down, mother to daughter, for generations. She lifted it gently from the shelf, carried it to the table, sat down. In the soft glow of a cod-liver oil lamp she contemplated the black designs embroidered on the linen cloth. Trees of life connected earth and sky. Female figures honored the disir who guarded women. Sun symbols summoned all that was good and warm and holy. Square fields, dotted with seed stitches, represented the hope of a bride’s fertility. Sharp angles whorling in opposite directions were intended to confuse evil spirits. Torhild had explained the meanings inherent in the symbols. She’d also explained that Britta might sometimes understand things, feel things, without explanation.

Britta hadn’t grasped everything her mother had tried to teach her. Now she grieved her inability to ask questions. Sometimes she did sense something unknown. But lately, since her mother died, she’d been floundering. “I am in need of guidance,” she whispered, trying to tap into whatever wisdom had been stitched into the cloth, whatever knowledge had seeped into the threads from her ancestors’ hands.

There was no sound in the old cabin beyond the crackle of low flames in the hearth, and the wind’s incessant howl. After a long, dark winter, Erik had taken advantage of the first thaw to take his fiddle and hike down the mountain in search of friends and a chance to play his tunes. Britta had no idea when he’d return. Or even if, she thought, for winter had roared back to the isolated farm, packing snow around the cabin and hurling sleet against the window. Erik wasn’t a hard drinker, as their father had been. But if the storm had surprised him …

Britta sighed. She wasn’t ready to give up on her brother. She understood that Erik needed to get away from time to time. She’d spent many cold winter evenings cleaning fleeces, carding wool, spinning yarn, and listening to him play his fiddle. He’d progressed from sounding out familiar tunes to composing his own. When a piece pleased him, he closed his eyes, looking truly happy. She wouldn’t deny him that.

But she also wasn’t ready to give up on Høiegård. Her grandparents, Lisbet and Lars, had managed to keep the farm going despite Lars’s injury. Her mother, Torhild, had managed to keep the farm going despite Halvor’s neglect. It was a poor piece of land, but it was theirs.

Britta touched the handaplagg, tracing shapes ancestors she’d never met had stitched and additions made by her own mother and grandmother.

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