Whether they were in Iceland or England, the sisters found themselves between two cultures, often unsure which way to jump. Generally Ísafold would incline to her father’s point of view, while Áróra would side with her mother, whenever comparisons were made between the different cuisines, customs or languages, as if it was a competition.

‘Iceland one, England nil,’ Ísafold had hissed when their mother had made her feelings plain about Icelandic food, that it was only fit for savages, to which their father retorted that the best thing about food in Britain was breakfast. It always irritated him when his wife hinted that Iceland somehow lagged behind.

It also bugged him that whenever he had a spur-of-the-moment idea for a project or a trip, it never failed to trigger his wife’s inner brakes, as she counted the costs and drawbacks. The girls’ mother liked to plan things, to be organised in advance, to enjoy the anticipation instead of acting on impulse, as their father and the rest of the Icelandic side of the family were inclined to do.

Right now, as Áróra thought back, sitting in the back of a taxi on its way through Edinburgh, she decided that her father would have liked her to have been more Icelandic, and felt the pangs of loss and helpless regret that always gripped her when she thought of him. In some way, she felt that she had betrayed Iceland, and therefore him as well.

She had allowed Iceland to fade out of her consciousness, in spite of all the summer holidays and Christmases spent there. After her father’s death she had spun all sorts of excuses to avoid going there, which had stretched the family ties so much, the invitations to christenings, weddings and family reunions that Icelanders were so fond of became steadily rarer. Ísafold, on the other hand, had revelled in all of that. She had taken every opportunity to go to Iceland, and even made excuses for needing to be there. She had taken her friends there for weekends to show them 13Reykjavík’s night life, and as soon as she had been old enough, she found herself a summer job there. It hadn’t been any kind of a surprise when she hooked herself an Icelandic guy. Somehow, that had been what was always going to happen.

Travelling light, with hand baggage only, Áróra was soon through check-in and the security checks, leaving her almost an hour to kill before boarding. She marched through the departure lounge to the gate, found a seat on a bench and took out her phone. She had already called both Ísafold’s mother-in-law and her brother-in-law, Björn’s brother Ebbi, leaving voice messages for both of them, plus she had sent text messages to Björn. None of them had picked up, there had been no messages and nobody had called her back.

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