December 2
The sun takes its time coming to Glitter Peak in the winter , Borghild Berg thought, but when it does, it’s with a flourish. She stood at the window, gazing out over the mountains—a sight she’d never grown tired of and couldn’t live without. Ingrid
had heard her grandmother say it a thousand times: she’d lived up here, and she’d die up here. Some nursing home down in the
valley was completely out of the question.
The panorama stretching out before her this December morning was frozen, yet still full of life. Was that an arctic fox slinking around by that ridge? Yes, it looked like one. If it were to look toward the southeast, it would see that the night sky was developing a reddish stripe close to the horizon. The ribbon of budding light was ever so slowly broadening into a wide band that spanned all the colors of the rainbow—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple that faded into grayish pink and blue shades if you turned your head to the north or south. A lone star still shone brightly in the dark azure high above, but the mountain fox probably didn’t notice that. If it had thought about that kind of thing, it would see that the constellations were starting to fade, and that Ursa Major and Minor
were heading back into their sky dens for the day.
For a while, it seemed as if the sun was going to change its mind; the sky was growing brighter and brighter but there was
no glowing orb to be seen. A bleary-eyed person might have thought that the sun hadn’t been able to resist the temptation
to go back to bed—to sleep just a little bit longer—in that plush duvet of stratus clouds that had collected in the valley below. But the mountain fox didn’t have
any concept of what a duvet is and probably wasn’t the least bit bleary-eyed. Borghild watched as it trotted purposefully
toward its den in the scree beneath the rock face. Perhaps the fox had been lucky today and managed to take its morning walk
without running into either a big red fox or a human. With an extra dose of luck, the fox might have even managed to catch
a lemming for breakfast as well. It wasn’t hard to imagine that the fox was perfectly content on a morning like this.
But it wasn’t the only early riser. The people at Glitter Peak Lodge had already been up and at it for several hours when
the orange sphere finally made its way over the horizon and its rays started to creep up the side of Glitter Peak.
Borghild Berg was one of them. Most days, she did her rounds of the hotel as soon as she’d gotten dressed, but today, she’d
sat down at her desk in the little apartment and spent some time writing in her journal.
Borghild turned away from the window and caught sight of her reflection in the mirror next to the wardrobe. She plucked a bit of lint off the blue-and-white cardigan she’d knitted a few years ago and tucked a loose strand of hair into the bun at the nape of her neck. Her clothes fit her well and her hair was still thick, even though it was completely white. Not bad for eighty-three , she thought, before scoffing at her own vanity.
On her way to the door, she paused by the two pictures hanging on the wall—just as she always did. The black-and-white wedding
portrait of her and Christian. The small oil painting of two young girls clad in bunads , the Norwegian national dress, in front of a freshly sprouted birch tree. She’d taken them with her when she left “The Residence”
for “The Pensioner’s.” She and Christian had moved into “The Residence” as newlyweds what felt like—and practically was—a
lifetime ago, and it had been her home until last fall. She’d looked at these pictures every day for sixty years but still
couldn’t pass by them without a pang in her chest that was a combination of love and melancholy. An aching grief over what
had been and what had never come to pass.
The photograph and painting were memories from a completely different time, a time when she herself had been standing on the
precipice of adult life, just as Ingrid was now. Well, strictly speaking, Ingrid was already well into her adult life. She
was over thirty, after all! Borghild had been much younger than that when the photo was taken. Young people were taking longer
to become adults these days. So much had to be done before they could settle down; they had to study for ages, travel farther
away, and try out different ways of living. Back in her day, there were fewer options and more obligations. There was so much
you simply had to deal with, whether you wanted to or not.
And yet—life had still felt so open back then, as though the world were her oyster. It had given her a lot, but she’d also had to give up a great deal.
She returned to her desk and wrote a few more lines. She sat there for a few seconds with the pen raised—as if in reflection—before
she clapped the journal shut, placed it inside the rolltop desk, and locked it with the key that hung on a gold chain inside
her blouse. Some things were best kept to oneself.
Borghild stood up and took a breath. She cast one last glance at the pictures before stepping into the hallway and locking
the door behind her. Only she and Ingrid had the key. Borghild cleaned the apartment herself, just as she had when living
in the manager’s residence. She didn’t think it was appropriate for the maids to go in there and clean up after her, and she
stuck to that belief after she’d taken over the smaller apartment.
At the bottom of the stairs, she met little Hussein, his backpack packed and ready. His mother had gone out to warm up the
car before driving him to school. The six-year-old was so bundled up that he was round as a ball, but that didn’t stop him
from trying to climb the banister from the wrong side.
“Good morning, Hussein. What are you doing?”
“Good morning, Miss Borghild! I’m just bouldering a little!” the boy shouted, hopping down and exposing his missing front
teeth in a big smile. His face glistened with cold cream and was barely visible between his fuzzy hat, which was pulled down
over his ears, and the many scarves his mother had tied around his neck.
“I see,” Borghild said. “Are you ready for school?”
“Yeah! We’re going skiing today!” Hussein beamed.
“Is that so?” Borghild said. “I suppose they’ve been running the snow machines down by the ski stadium for a while now. But do you have skis?”
“No, but we can borrow some.”
“I’m sure you’ll have lots of fun! But you might be a little too warmly dressed for skiing,” Borghild said. “You’ll see when
you get started.”
“Mommy says you can never be too warmly dressed in Norway,” Hussein replied.
Borghild smiled. Aisha had heard lots of stories about careless people who got injured and froze to death in the inhospitable
Norwegian outdoors, especially from Maja Seter. The chef always had a good disaster story up her sleeve, and Aisha was terrified
that something would happen to her son here in this new, cold, and wild country.
Borghild understood Aisha’s concern; she recognized something of Ingrid in Hussein. She’d also been this kind of child, the
kind who could never sit still and was always climbing—on furniture, rocks, railings, and trees. A few weeks ago, Aisha had
gotten a call from Hussein’s teacher; her son had climbed up the big statue in the village when the class was on a field trip.
The teacher had been worried—not that Hussein would get hurt, because he always got down safely, but that the other children
might try the same thing.
Borghild followed Hussein to the exit and waved at mother and son as they started the twenty-minute drive down to Dalen. Then
she went into the kitchen to get her coffee.
***
Ingrid walked resolutely up the stairs, with caretaker Alfred Haug’s heavy footsteps behind her. Those with a lot to do get a lot done , a voice said inside her—Nana Borghild’s words. Alfred Haug said nothing. On the top floor, they turned down the corridor,
reached the stairs leading to the attic, and started up the dark steps. A bit of light came through an opening in the wall
at the top.
Ingrid hadn’t had time to check the attic the day before and really didn’t feel like dealing with it now, to be honest. Alfred
clearly didn’t either. But it had to be done. Since Aisha had discovered the possible fungus when she was up in the attic
looking through the old linen chests, Ingrid knew she didn’t have the luxury of simply shutting her eyes and pretending this
wasn’t happening. It was just that she couldn’t really afford to do anything about it if she actually found fungus, either.
She’d googled dry rot and shuddered at what she’d read: “Once it gets a good grip on your house, the consequences can be dire. It spreads rapidly,
and often in concealed areas. You don’t have much of a chance of discovering it before it’s done a lot of irreversible damage.”
She took the last few steps, pushed open the heavy attic door, and fumbled for the light switch. Bare bulbs hung from heavy
timber beams, creating small, dim circles of light. The corners of the room were still dark, so she could only just make out
the outlines of boxes, cupboards, and miscellaneous furniture that had been retired but not yet discarded. The air was freezing
cold. Ingrid held the door open until Alfred had also made it up the stairs. He was panting after tramping up four floors
with his heavy toolbox. He’d snorted when Ingrid had told him that Aisha had seen some strange growths along the skirting
boards and protested against the whole expedition. But you could be darn sure he was going to take a look at this. He was
the caretaker, and it was his job.
“Alfred, look! Could this be real dry rot?” Ingrid asked.
“What kind of dry rot would it be otherwise?” Alfred replied. “A replica? Made in China?”
Ingrid sighed. She didn’t know whether Alfred was being stupid or was trying to tease her, but right now, she wasn’t really
in a joking mood.
“Dry rot is a nightmare!” she exclaimed. She looked around. “But I wouldn’t have thought the hotel was particularly prone
to it. The building is so solid...”
“Yes, exactly,” Alfred said.
“And it’s odd that it would grow up in the attic.”
“Yes.”
“You’d think it was pretty dry up here.”
“Yes.”
She turned to the caretaker and studied his bushy gray sideburns and eyes buried deep under folds of skin. How old was Alfred
really? Impossible to say. Anywhere between fifty and a hundred, she thought. Could he have started neglecting his maintenance
duties in recent years? Nana Borghild was a resourceful woman, but with limited income from hotel operations and a small staff,
there were limits to how much she could realistically manage to keep track of. She was also over eighty. Perhaps the decay
had been able to go too far.
Ingrid pointed her flashlight at the wall again.
“Have you been up here lately? Checked the moisture levels?”
Alfred stared at her without responding and walked over to the area she was shining the light on. He squatted down painstakingly
and tentatively felt the rot or whatever it was with one finger. He loosened a small piece and lifted it to take a closer
look. He sniffed it. Then he put it in his mouth.
Ingrid could hardly believe her eyes. Admittedly, she’d always thought Alfred Haug was a bit odd, but was he really this foolish? Why had Nana Borghild kept him as caretaker and handyman for so many years—a guy who sat on the floor eating dry
rot?
Alfred’s weather-beaten face broke into a big smile. He reached out, picked up another piece of the orange substance, and
stood up heavily, supporting himself on his left knee. He walked toward Ingrid, grinning like a fool. When he got to her,
he lifted what he had between his fingers up to her face. She squinted. It was orange and looked dry and porous.
“Take a bite!” Alfred said. “This is a very special kind of dry rot, I’d say!”
She took a step back, but he continued, “Don’t you like Cheetos?”
Alfred’s booming laughter resounded until the attic door shut behind them and they headed back down the stairs to the kitchen.
***
Ingrid took a five-minute break in the kitchen with Hussein. The chef had cleaned up after “nons”—as she called the after-school
meal—and retired to her room for a while. Aisha had gone back to her office. The facilities manager had flexible hours so
that she could take care of Hussein, but plenty of tasks needed her attention, and she had orders to go through. There was
a lot to buy for both the hotel operations and the outdoor restaurant for ski tourists, which would open as soon as the snow
came and the trails were prepped.
Hussein’s cheeks were still rosy-red after the activity day at school. He was enthusiastic when Ingrid asked him how it had
gone.
“I think I was pretty good at skiing,” he said. “And the teacher thought so too. Even though Mikkel said I was just trudging . And then he started singing the Arabian Nights song from Aladdin.”
Mikkel. That had to be Mikkel Dalen, son of Freddy Dalen, whom she remembered from school. So Mikkel was— what would he be? —the great-grandson ( yes, that must be it ) of the famous, and infamous, Hallgrim “Muskox” Dalen.
***
Hallgrim was a kind of village king, clan chief, and owner of the most prominent business in town, Muskox Machinery. His family
dominated the village and had done so for as long as Ingrid could remember—and certainly long before that, too. She’d always
thought the Dalen family was unpleasant, especially the boys. At school, they always had a snide comment at the ready. If
you had gotten a new piece of clothing or a trendy backpack, you could be sure that it would be sneered at and possibly even
damaged by the end of the day. She remembered the time Freddy Dalen and some of his friends tried to hoist a boy up the flagpole
in the schoolyard. He was wearing expensive new jeans and had to be punished for thinking he was better than them. The boy
fought back, but the older boys overpowered him and threaded the flag cord through the loops of his pants. The other kids
just stood there and watched, their faces shining with terrified delight. But suddenly, a fair-haired boy came running through
the schoolyard. It was Thor Seter, Ingrid’s classmate. He was much younger than Freddy, but big and strong for his age, and
he jumped on Freddy from behind. “Let him go!” Thor roared. “That’s dangerous!”
Freddy let go of the boy and threw himself at Thor instead. “Why the hell do you care?” he shouted, shoving Thor to the ground. “Stupid sheep farmer!” He sat on top of Thor and made faces. “You smell like shit! Sheep shit!” Even though Thor was big, Freddy Dalen was bigger—and he had a whole gang with him. The bullies let go of the first victim, who darted off with his new pants intact, and turned to backing up Freddy, who was beating up Thor. No teachers were to be seen, but suddenly, a thin voice cut through the commotion: “Freddy! Stop!” It was Freddy’s little brother, Karl, who was in Thor and Ingrid’s class. Karl—the “Muskox Calf,” as he was called—was small and thin, quite unlike his enormous brothers and cousins. “There’s something off with that one,” people in the village said. He mostly kept to himself, but Thor looked after him. Karl was usually quiet, but now, his voice echoed through the schoolyard: “Thor is my friend! I’ll tell Mom if you hurt him!” Freddy laughed loudly but stopped hitting Thor, stood up, and wiped his hands on his pants before calling Karl a whiny brat and leaving the schoolyard, his minions at his heels.
It was as if the Dalen boys simply had to be nasty back then, and apparently, they were still the same way. Or maybe Ingrid was seeing ghosts in broad daylight?
It didn’t sound as though Hussein was taking the teasing to heart, but she’d definitely be keeping an eye on this. She was
well aware of the way bullies could have a firm hold on small villages, and because Hussein was from elsewhere, there was
extra reason to pay attention.
Ingrid knew that Nana Borghild also had a strained relationship with the Dalen family. She didn’t even say hello to Hallgrim if they ran into each other down in the village, even though they were the same age and must have known each other since childhood. It was strange, really. It wasn’t like Borghild to be impolite, so there had to be some reason for it. Had they also disliked each other during their school days, or was there something else? Ingrid had asked her grandmother about it once a long time ago but didn’t get a clear answer. Nana Borghild had just shaken her head and said that some people were best to stay away from. Ingrid knew that Hallgrim Dalen and his sons had a reputation for being crafty in business situations—perhaps a bit too crafty sometimes. Apparently, they also didn’t shy away from forcing people into deals that always worked out in the Dalen
family’s favor.
“He said I was good at shooting bears, though,” Hussein said.
Ingrid looked at him, confused, before she realized what he meant.
“But that’s a weird thing to say,” Hussein said. “The only bear I’ve ever met is Barry, and he was shot long before I got
to know him.”
Ingrid could have told Hussein that shooting bears was local dialect for falling on skis, but he’d surely figure that out with time.
“Hey, Hussein,” she said. “Does Speedy have any relatives up in the attic?”
Hussein looked at her quickly with his big, dark eyes before his gaze darted over to the stove and then back to her. He didn’t
answer immediately, just concentrated on the carvings on the back of the bench.
“The thing is, Alfred and I found some Cheetos in a mouse hole up there,” Ingrid said. “And cookie crumbs on the floor. I
was wondering if you had any idea how they could have gotten there?”
“His little cousins were hungry, too,” Hussein explained, not meeting her eyes. “You have to feed the hungry!”
Ingrid had examined both the woolen blankets in the corner and the food on the floor once she’d gotten over the initial shock of the “dry rot.” The Cheetos had been stuffed into a small hole, which was why it looked as though something was growing out of the wall. On closer inspection, the brown powder had turned out to be crumbs—not fungal spores, as Ingrid had feared. When she kept looking, she’d also found a comic book and half a package of chocolate chip cookies between the blankets.
“Did we find your secret hideout up there, Hussein?” she asked, taking his hand. He looked at her with a shy smile.
“You know, it’s okay,” Ingrid said. “You can hang out in the attic when you need some time to yourself. Even though it’s terribly
cold up there right now. But you have to promise you won’t feed the mice anymore.”
Hussein nodded weakly and not entirely convincingly.
Ingrid continued, “And the next thing I have to say is even more important. I found a candle and matchbox up there, too. You
cannot use matches! We’ll get you a flashlight instead. Candles are a real fire hazard, okay? Imagine if the whole hotel burned
down!”
Hussein looked at her in horror. “I’m sorry, Auntie Ingrid!” he exclaimed. “I won’t burn down the hotel!”
Ingrid saw that he had tears in his eyes and regretted how stern she’d been. Besides, she always softened a bit when he called
her Auntie Ingrid. She wasn’t really his aunt, of course, but she considered it a declaration of love. She put her arm around
him, and he rested his head on her shoulder.
They sat that way until Maja came back into the kitchen and started unloading groceries energetically. She occasionally cast
a glance at the floor by the stove as if preparing to attack any rodents that might venture out from there.
“We really should have kept Meowgret’s kittens,” Maja said. “It’s like my grandmother always said — when the cat’s away, the mice will play.”
***
Ingrid grabbed a caramel from the bowl on her desk and popped it in her mouth while her computer started up with a bit of
fanfare. Even though Ingrid now heard this sound almost every day, it still caused her some discomfort. For months, she had
associated both her computer and phone with social media, unwanted attention, and bad memories. Last year’s experience had
taught her that there was no limit to the amount of speculation and gossip people could spew about people they didn’t even
know.
Celebrity climber in deadly accident. Climbers criticized after fatal avalanche. Defied warnings. Uncertain if deceased climber
can be retrieved from avalanche area. Lost close friend—and love. Speculations about the breakup. The media had been intrusive, and the comments sections even worse. Ingrid felt physically ill just thinking about it, her
pulse speeding up and nausea setting in. She’d learned which sites to avoid and had reduced her use of social media to a minimum.
She had to if she didn’t want to fall into the black hole again and again.
But an internet-free life wasn’t an option, and she had to use Messenger and Snapchat, which were her friend Vegard’s preferred
methods of communication. Vegard Vang had been there for her all along, and he still was.
Vegard and Ingrid had instantly become best friends when they met at a hotel in the Alps years ago. Vegard was working for an event agency that had organized a big conference for business leaders at the hotel, and Ingrid had been hired to give an inspirational speech. She wasn’t particularly fond of such jobs, since these kinds of conferences were often filled with pretentious jerks, but it was incredibly well paid, so she’d said yes anyway.
Vegard had stood out among the conference participants. He was dressed informally (but still expensively and fashionably,
she’d later realized; she was clueless about that kind of thing). He had tousled medium-blond hair, blue eyes, and a contagious
smile. There was something eager and boyish about him that made him particularly charming, and after the conference was over,
they spent a fun evening together at the hotel bar. At first, she’d thought Vegard was trying to pick her up, but she’d known
him for only a few minutes when she realized he was never going to be interested in her that way.
“You’re the sister I always wanted!” Vegard laughed as they hugged each other goodbye after the conference. “To be fair, I
already have a sister. But you’re better!” She had to laugh, too. She’d love it if Vegard were her brother.
Since then, they saw each other as much as possible when they were both in Norway. Vegard said she could always crash at his place when she was in Oslo. When they couldn’t meet in person, they texted and talked on the phone. They’d supported each other in both professional and private situations. When Ingrid started dating Preben Wexelsen, she’d noticed he was skeptical of Vegard, and vice versa. Even though Preben quickly realized Ingrid’s friend was by no means a competitor in the romance department, their relationship had never gotten past cordiality. Preben and Vegard tolerated each other, but no more than that. Ingrid had found this difficult because they both meant so much to her—but it was her friendship with Vegard that had stood the test of time.
They were quite different, she and Vegard. She was interested in the outdoors, he in city life. Where she preferred practical
outdoor gear, he read up on trends and fashion. But they had something deeper in common, something that inspired confidence,
goodwill, and trust. With time, Vegard came to know everything about her. She’d even shared the most difficult things with
him—things no one else knew.
She was always happy when her friend was close by. With a friend like Vegard by her side, she felt she could handle anything.
And when Vegard got a boyfriend, it was completely different from when Ingrid got together with Preben. Ingrid had liked David
Wong from the moment she met him. This actually came as a bit of a surprise, because when Vegard had told her that he’d started
talking to the wealthy Chinese-Norwegian investor at a nightclub in Oslo and that they were now a couple, she’d been far from
convinced that it was a good idea. But as soon as she met David, she immediately knew it was a good match. There was something
about his attitude, his voice, the warmth in his beautiful eyes when he looked at Vegard.
She hadn’t seen David as much recently because he was so occupied with his businesses, but he’d helped from the sidelines
and given her lots of good advice, both practical and financial. Wisdom and economy seemed to merge in David. Vegard sometimes
affectionately called him “the Owl,” and David called Vegard “my squirrel.” A bit ridiculous, but an appropriate nickname
nonetheless—Vegard was social and sharp-witted, while at the same time hardworking and good at planning.
Had it not been for Vegard and David, Ingrid never would have dared to take over the hotel. “Go for it!” Vegard had said with his characteristic enthusiasm. “I’ll help you!” And help he had. Inspirer, strategist, and media adviser—Vegard Vang was worth his weight in gold. Perhaps even more than that, considering his modest weight. He and David had gone through both Ingrid’s personal finances and the hotel’s accounts for the past few years and helped Ingrid and Nana Borghild come up with a plan for refinancing and continued operations. The couple had also offered to invest some of their own money in the hotel, but Ingrid hadn’t been keen on accepting charity and had gratefully declined. Besides, the best help from Vegard and David—or Vang & Wong as they were known in business settings—wouldn’t be a direct investment, but rather support to make the hotel viable in the years to come.
Social media, which Vegard was so keen on, would also be crucial. She needed it for marketing the hotel and the Glitter Peak
brand—or the Ingrid Berg brand, really, if you chose to look at it that way. Vegard helped her handle that part.
The program for Christmas and different events at the hotel had been posted on various websites and on Facebook. Instagram
and Snapchat would help them reach the younger target audience. Although the current number of bookings wasn’t exactly unmanageable,
to say the least, interest in Glitter Peak Lodge had increased considerably after Vegard had started helping her promote the
business through the right channels.
At that very moment, the Messenger symbol lit up on the screen. Speak of the devil—it was Vegard himself. Great news! the message read. Call me!