“Honesty’s always good . . .” she said cautiously.

“He’s actually kind of an amazing guy. I can see how you would have hit that . . . I mean, spiritually, at least . . .”

She laughed. “You’re not actually jealous?”

“He radiates something I don’t have. I wish I had his charisma.”

She gave a theatrical sigh. “You beautiful jealous lying fuck of a man.”

“Forgive me?”

“Sure. Just don’t go getting converted.”

I ended the call and returned to the kitchen. In the middle of the kitchen floor the young woman in the gray shift dress was standing with her head inclined toward Bror. She turned as I entered, stood facing me, hands folded formally at her waist. Her feet were bare now.

“Hello,” I said.

She glanced at Bror. Bror nodded.

“I was abrupt when you arrived.” She looked at me, then looked down at her feet. “I am contrite. You are the father of a heroine. You are always welcome here.” Far too young, I thought, to be speaking so formally.

“I believe Milla wishes to apologize,” said Bror, his hand on her arm.

She smiled, her gaze still averted. “I do. I wish to apologize.” She glanced up at me, eyes dancing, smiled the most charming of smiles.

“No need,” I said.

“I believe there is,” she said. Again she averted her gaze.

Bror said, “I’m sure Cal understands that your instinct is to protect, Milla, and that you were dutifully protecting me.” He looked at me. I nodded. “And perhaps you will serve him with coffee? As a token of your contrition?”

“Gladly.” She turned toward the counter.

Strange to see this woman so submissive, when before—

“How is your extraordinary wife?” asked Bror, breaking my thought.

“She’s well,” I said. “All things considered. She sends her very best.”

My mind flashed to an image of Elsa, fresh from the shower, throwing her arms around this strange otherworldly man.

Bror stepped toward me, studied my face. He smiled a wry smile. “You have my respect. To take on a woman so committed to her cause requires moral strength.”

I laughed, but he was serious.

“Elsa set a standard that I could not meet. Her radical honesty defeated me in the end. Though she inspired me perhaps to seek out my own calling.” He smiled, placed a hand on my forearm. “But total honesty is not easy when you are dealing with a missing child. People blame each other, and say things that are better left unsaid. Are you being kind to one another?”

“We are.”

“Good.”

He turned toward the woman Milla, who handed him two cups of coffee. He nodded, and she returned to the counter, where she stood watching us, her hands folded at her waist. Bror turned, offered me a cup. Milla hovered by the sink. I smiled. She half smiled, then looked away.

“Will you not join us in a cup?” I said.