‘Yes,’ said the Princess quietly, so as not to frighten them away. ‘It’s marvellous. Light-green – and there – pink! And spirals – and that, so high . . . Look, look!’ Now she dared to speak louder, because the Northern Lights were up there like the real thing. ‘That looks like a little sun!’

I said, ‘And that, that’s curdled milk and there, baby cirrus-clouds . . . blue . . . light-blue!’

‘Look, and the horizon, I’m sure it just goes on and on – it’s all silver grey. Oh Poppa, isn’t it beautiful!’

We stood still and looked up. A wagon rattled past and made us start. The farmer, sitting on the driver’s seat, waved to us and looked up himself to see what it was. We looked first at him, and then at the meadows, which were cold and grey. A little ashamed, we smiled. We looked back up at the sky. There was nothing there. It was smooth, blue and twilit. There was nothing.

‘Peter . . .’ said the Princess, ‘Peter . . .’

4

‘Could you tell us, Frau Andersson,’ I said to the castle lady, who had just wished us good evening – I pronounced her name correctly, ‘Andershon’ – ‘who were those children we saw earlier? Back . . . back in the meadows?’

‘Ah yes, there are many children. They are farmers’ boys who gather and play there . . .’

‘No, no. They were little girls walking along in a very orderly line, like an institute or a school, something like that . . .’

‘A school?’ Frau Andersson thought for a while. ‘Ah! They are Frau Adriani’s children. From Läggesta.’ And she pointed to the other side of the lake, where you could just see a large building in a clearing. ‘That’s a boarding school, a children’s home. Yes.’ She had an expression on her face such as I had never seen before. I grew curious. Now, it’s conventional wisdom that it’s better not to ask a direct question – because then you won’t get the answer you’re looking for.

‘There must be a lot of children there . . . are there not?’

‘Yes, a holy mess,’ said Frau Andersson; you often had to guess at her meaning a little, as she probably translated everything directly from the Swedish. ‘There are many children boarding there, but not many Swedish children. Praise God!’

‘Why praise God, Frau Andersson?’

‘Jaha,’ she said and veered away like a hunted rabbit, ‘there are not many Swedish children, ne-do!’

‘That’s a shame,’ I said, thinking I was being awfully subtle. ‘It must be very nice there . . .’

Frau Andersson was silent for a moment. Then, courageously, she took a little run-up. She lowered her voice.

‘There is . . . it isn’t a good woman who is there. But I don’t want to speak evil . . . you understand. A German lady. But not a good lady. German people are so friendly – not true . . . Please don’t mistake me!’

‘You mean the headmistress of the boarding school?’