Bracing himself on the trunk, Henrik eased down to his knees. After he scooted the lamp and books to the floor, he unlocked the trunk.
He stashed away his journal, loaded with his thoughts—far too many about Else. He slipped in Mor’s Bible. Having one iteminscribed to an Ahlefeldt could be written off as coincidental, but two? Then he added his university physics textbook, with his own name inside.
He locked the trunk and replaced the lamp and Kierkegaard.
Lately Else had brought other books. During the day, he read Kierkegaard. He didn’t agree with all his ideas, but he appreciated the care and depth of thought.
Henrik eyed the door, left open for fresh air and for Else. Twice a day she visited, bringing food, medicine, and cheer.
She’d even brought him a second pair of pajamas. Every other morning, she ordered him to change during the day so she could launder his pajamas in the evening. In ordinary circumstances, he would have protested that he was capable of doing his own washing, as he had for three years. But now he could barely wash himself.
A few times each day, he dragged himself downstairs to the bathroom, but he could only manage a flimsy sponge bath.
Henrik set his hands on his knees, on the crisp cotton pajamas in bright sky blue, “the same color as your eyes,” Else had said with a wink.
Not a flirtatious wink, but the wink of a sister teasing a brother, perhaps because that brother was too proud of his eye color.
Henrik chuckled, which brought up a string of coughs, clearing mud from the cellar of his lungs. Then he shoveled himself back into bed and closed his eyes until the wooziness faded.
Regardless of how Else meant that wink, it had rendered him mute. At least muteness sounded more like Hemming.
Illness had stolen his discretion, and he’d spoken too loftily during her first visits. He had to be more careful.
Light footsteps creaked on the stairs. Henrik sat up straighter in bed and arranged the sheet over his lap.
“Good evening,” Else called through the open door.
“Good evening. Come in.”
Else entered, and fragrant steam wafted from the tray she carried.
He murmured in double pleasure.
“How do you feel today?” She set down the tray and smiled at him. “You look better.”
Henrik measured his words. “I feel better.”
Else pressed her hand to his forehead, her fingers warm today, not icy. “Yes, much better.” The curled ends of her hair fell about her cheeks, framing the sparkle in her eyes.
He started to nod, but he didn’t want to break her touch.
She picked up the bowl. “Fru Riber made yellow pea soup with ham. Doesn’t it smell wonderful?”
“Yes.” He took the bowl and inhaled steam into the wreckage of his lungs.
“She sent bread too. Are you ready for it?”
“I am.”
“Good.” She pushed the tray closer, and she poured tea.
She looked so pretty in a simple gray skirt and a light blue blouse he hadn’t seen before.
“Your blouse.” He swallowed a spoonful of soup. “Same color as your eyes.”
Else faced him, eyes wide enough to confirm the exact shade of blue.
He dropped her a wink, mimicking her tone of a few days earlier.
