For once, Áróra wasn’t inclined to protest. She was all out of ideas concerning Ísafold, and she felt she might soon become as desperate as her mother sounded. Where the hell had Ísafold gone?

50

21

Her mother had been as good as her word, calling ahead to announce Áróra’s arrival. Her finger was poised over the button marked Daníel Hansson, ready to press it, when the door swung open.

‘Good morning,’ he said. His voice was deep and welcoming, and Áróra had the feeling she had heard it before, although the man’s serious face was nowhere in her memory. He looked to be well past forty, with a touch of grey in the close-cropped hair that she guessed he clippered short himself. The eyes that met hers were a pale grey but strangely warm.

‘Hello,’ she said, extending a hand. ‘Apologies for the inconvenience.’

‘No problem,’ he said, ushering her in. ‘It’s no inconvenience at all. It was good to speak to your mother. I hadn’t heard from her for a long time.’

Icelandic style, Áróra took off her shoes in the hall and followed him on stockinged feet into the living room, overwhelmed by the feeling of being a child again, visiting Iceland. She could hear old-fashioned state radio burbling in the kitchen, and there was a smell in the air that she couldn’t pin down but which was somehow familiar – some peculiarly Icelandic smell.

‘So how are we related?’ she asked when Daníel had shown her to a chair. She didn’t doubt that her mother had at some time explained the connection, but her interest in her genealogy was limited.

He looked at her with a glitter of amusement in his eyes. ‘We aren’t related,’ he said.

‘Oh. Mum referred to you as my uncle, so I assumed you must have been related to my dad.’

The pink flush she could feel flooding her cheeks took her by 51surprise. For someone who had made a habit of staying in control in the most bizarre situations, there was something about those light-grey eyes that flustered her.

‘I used to be married to your aunt, but we divorced more than ten years ago. So it would be more accurate to say that we had links, although a long time ago.’

‘Ah. Understood.’ Áróra smiled. ‘Do you have any children?’ she asked, trying to keep the conversation light, chatting as people normally did, but immediately realised that the question seemed to be over-inquisitive. What business of hers was it if this unrelated uncle had children or not? But he responded as if there was nothing more natural than answering a complete stranger’s questions about his family circumstances.

‘No, we didn’t have children,’ he said. ‘But I have two from a subsequent relationship. They live with their mother in Denmark.’