The trip to the ministry this morning had been worthwhile: a chance to clear up minor tasks, deal with emails, answer questions from the staff and start preparing responses to parliamentary questions on a variety of matters. Parliament made her nervous so she 137was determined to be well prepared for her first public appearance there and she had wanted time to concentrate. There were fewer people in the building on a Saturday and less pressure from the media, so this had given her space to think. At any rate, nothing had changed over the last twenty-four hours, and the newspapers were stuck in the same groove as before, lapping up each other’s coverage and publishing interviews with legal experts who failed to agree on what documents the minister had a right to see. With any luck, it would all have blown over by Monday.

A tempting aroma met them as they stepped over the threshold of the turf house. The children were there ahead of them, and Ari was making pancakes over an open fire under the careful tutelage of a lady in national dress. They tasted the pancakes and heaped praise on Ari for his skill in turning them over, and for a moment everything was perfect, the four of them together, laughing and happy.

‘This is a sight to see! The minister in person, here for a tour of the turf house,’ a man exclaimed as he came in to the kitchen.

Úrsúla had a moment’s discomfort as she recognised the man’s face but was unable to recollect where she had met him before.

He solved the mystery himself by offering a hand to Nonni and introducing himself.

‘Bergmundur. Professor of Icelandic language and folklore.’

‘I’m Jón,’ Nonni said. ‘These are our children, Herdís and Ari.’

The man didn’t pay any attention to the children, but instead he gazed intently at Úrsúla, who realised that he was one of the group of academics who had come to see her about the naming committee. The groove between his eyes looked deeper than ever, and judging by his tone of voice, Úrsúla hadn’t been forgiven.

‘I’d have thought that Disneyland would be more your thing,’ he said, and Úrsúla couldn’t be sure if his tone was sarcastic or simply curious. He took off his coat and Úrsúla was startled to see his woollen sweater, knitted in shades of grey, with buttons and black bands on the sleeves. 138

‘Everything in moderation,’ she muttered. ‘We like the children to experience everything.’

‘Is there Disneyland in Iceland?’ Ari asked, giving his sister a hard nudge.

‘Of course not, you idiot!’

‘Shh! None of that, kids,’ Nonni scolded.

‘Then why did he say it?’ Ari asked loudly, and there was a desperation in his voice, as if he feared that somewhere in Iceland lurked an American-style theme park that nobody had told him about.

‘So is there Disneyland in Iceland or not?’ Ari demanded again, and this time nobody replied, as Úrsúla shepherded him out through the kitchen door and into the yard.