Karl-Johan nods, but something in his face tells her that he probably doesn’t understand who she is or what she’s doing there. She carries on talking anyway, telling him about the lithograph and where her father bought it. Karl-Johan keeps on nodding. In spite of the glasses and the dementia, there is something appealing not just in his face and smile, but in the energy surrounding him. She thinks about the photographs she saw at Änglaberga and in Klein’s lodge, how attractive yet vulnerable he was. She can easily imagine why Elisabet fell head over heels in love with him. He may be blind and incapacitated, but Karl-Johan still makes an impression on the people he meets, and Anna is no exception. Would Elisabet really have cheated on him with Klein? Or is it just that the two of them have found support in each other? She chooses to believe that is the case, and reproaches herself for speculating about rumour and village gossip that has nothing to do with her. Whether she likes it or not, the Vidje family have got under her skin, and this visit merely confirms that.

She finishes talking about the lithograph, and doesn’t quite know what else to say.

‘Anna,’ Karl-Johan says again. ‘Anna.’

‘We’re living at Tabor,’ she adds. ‘In your old studio.’

His smile doesn’t alter.

‘I found your old sl . . .’ she swallows the stammer, takes a moment, ‘slide in one of the outhouses.’

Karl-Johan’s face lights up. ‘Sl . . . slide,’ he says, tripping up over the word in exactly the same place as she did, which makes her like him even more.

‘We used to use it. Simon and me, through the hole in the wall.’ He nods, smiling warmly. ‘My little boy.’

A sudden lump in her throat makes Anna swallow hard. She is lost for words, but Elisabet comes to her rescue.

‘Anna and her daughter have settled in really well at Tabor. It’s lovely, isn’t it, Anna?’

‘Lovely,’ she replies, trying to sound cheerful, but it’s hard. All she can think about is the photograph of Karl-Johan and Simon. How happy they both looked. My little boy . . .

She swallows again.

‘Tabor,’ Karl-Johan says, his smile more introverted now, as if his failing brain has conjured up an image only he can see. However, within seconds his expression changes and he looks anxious.

‘The deer,’ he says, shuffling uncomfortably in his armchair. ‘The deer that died. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault.’

He turns his head from side to side, as if his blind eyes see things in the room that are upsetting him. He grabs hold of Anna’s wrist and pulls her close.

‘It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault.’