And his longed-for son-in-law had more than this to recommend him. In exchange for food and board, he had offered his services to Sven’s business. It was transformed in a mere matter of months. Over the winter, Pyotr burned up the telephone lines. He contacted fresh customers, arranged discounts on shipping, even bought up the business of Guthmund Ejilsson, long a thorn in Sven’s side. New accounts and orders appeared overnight. Pyotr was a ruthless, even callous negotiator, and Sven stepped back to allow him to play hardball. It was a wise decision. Money had flooded in, and he was about to buy a nice house in a new neighbourhood, closer to Helsinki. Espoo wasn’t big enough for Sven now.

He paid Pyotr, of course, but apart from buying new suits and shoes, Pyotr had saved every penny. He wanted a place of his own, he told Sven. He wanted to be able to support a family. This, with a loving glance at Aud, who gazed adoringly back.

When the engagement was announced, Sven had proudly presented Pyotr with a dowry. Ten thousand American dollars. It was a huge sum of money, enough to keep his daughter in style. Aud had clapped and squealed, and Pyotr had shaken his hand warmly and told him that this would be the foundation of everything he was to become. He said he was destined for great things. And Sven believed him.

He looked at his daughter, now, dressed in that long, white dress—a medium size, she wasn’t even fat—with a short white veil and a diamante tiara in her hair, and he smiled. He did not think he’d ever see her looking so beautiful ever again.

And he was right.

They were married at St. Stephen’s chapel, the Lutheran parish he occasionally attended, with family and a few friends from the business. Aud clutched a small bouquet of red roses—imported from European hothouses, but she deserved the best—and Pyotr wore a dark suit. He had asked Natasha to be matron of honour. She was very striking in her red sheath, dark hair piled on top of her head, but Sven thought she looked old and drawn; there was that manic air about her. To contrast with Aud, she carried a bouquet of white roses; Sven saw that Tasha clutched them hard around the thorny stems and tiny droplets of blood studded her pale hands. When Pyotr kissed Aud at the minister’s invitation, he thought Tasha swayed on her feet. Was she thinking of her own husband? Was it relief that her niece had finally gotten herself a man?

The unpleasant thought occurred to him that perhaps Tasha was jealous. But surely not. She had never said a word. And besides, just as Pyotr had pointed out, he was far too young for Natasha. If she were to remarry, it would need to be someone her own age.