He left and they were alone. Oda snapped on both lights because the afternoon was so dark, but it only made things worse so she put them out again, and it was even darker than before.

It was true that the armchair was burgundy and pink. It was also true that two of the windows faced the sea. But the sea was indistinguishable from the sky, rain, and fog so what did it matter? Fritz would be laughing now, at the expense, the effort, the view of nothing. But she only felt guilty that she was looking out at wet blots and blurs of gray he would never see. He’d planned all their trips, always south, toward the sun. Now she understood why.

“You don’t want me riding,” Hanne said.

In one way she was lucky her daughter was only twelve and could only imagine that Oda was brooding about horses.

“I’ve always wanted to learn, you know.”

Fritz had left her with debts on three credit cards, large debts that she had only just paid off this spring. She wasn’t going to fall behind for something as frivolous as riding lessons.

When Oda went downstairs, the innkeeper was setting tables. He asked if they had everything they needed.

“Where is the nearest shop for crackers and such?” She did not want to tell him she would be buying the food for most of their meals and fixing them in her room. Perhaps tomorrow or the next day she might dare to ask for a small spot in his fridge for sliced meats and cheeses.

“Back down the hill, take a right, and it will be on your left. That place is expensive, though. If you like, I can add what you need when I place my order on the mainland. Delivery comes every other day on the morning boat.”

“Thank you,” she said, embarrassed. Kindnesses like that could strip her naked and she scrambled to cover herself up. “Perhaps another day. Today I’ll just run out for a few things.”

“Closed today. Sunday.”

“I see.”

“Shall I set your table for supper?”

“Yes, please.”

She went back upstairs without having mentioned the horses.

Hanne had strewn the contents of Oda’s suitcase all over the floor. “Why don’t you have my shampoo?”

“Because you said you’d pack the little bottles we got in Genoa.” We meant the three of them, a different we.

“And you brought that gross deodorant that makes you smell like rotten vegetables.”

Above them light footsteps traveled the length of the ceiling, another heavier pair close behind. Silence. A wild howl.

“Great,” Hanne said. “Children.”