Esther learned that Margrethe Dybris had lived with the Torajan people in Indonesia on multiple occasions. They mummified their dead and lived with them for years before burying them. She did a search for the tribe and read about their death rituals, kept going, and found an article about relics of the dead exhibited at a museum in Warsaw. She took notes.

It looked as if there might be an exhibit of death masks at Thorvaldsens Museum right here in Copenhagen that she would have to go see. A new link led her to a sales notice for a carved wooden relief of a funeral procession, beautiful but gloomy, with crying children and a skeleton among the mourners. It was for sale at the auction house Nordhjem for an astonishing sum, not exactly in her budget. A new link led her to pictures of reliquaries; she found herself scrolling past crosses and birds and eventually stopped at a picture of a light-skinned doll.

“Did you take the scissors?”

Esther nearly jumped out of her chair. Gregers was standing right behind the desk, looking at her accusingly.

“They’re not in the kitchen drawer where they usually go.”

“I haven’t seen them, Gregers,” she said, putting her hand over her racing heart. “I wonder if they aren’t in your room?”

“Oh, please! If they were, I’d hardly come in here asking you about them, would I?” He pointed to the stacks of paper on the desk. “I can’t believe you put up with this mess.”

Esther got up from her computer with an audible sigh. For the most part, living with Gregers was pleasant and unproblematic, but every once in a while his crankiness got on her nerves.

“Come on, let’s go look in the kitchen,” she suggested. “I need to stir the risotto anyway.”

Gregers led the way, and she followed, contemplating his dwindling frame. He had lost weight again. His appetite wasn’t what it used to be, and sometimes he forgot to eat altogether, so Esther had started preparing dinner for both of them a few times a week. It was more fun cooking for two anyway, even if Gregers complained about her Mediterranean dishes.

“They’re right there!” Esther said, pointing. “In the middle of the table.”

“They weren’t there before,” Gregers said, scowling at the scissors. “You must have moved them!” He snatched the scissors and angrily shuffled away down the hall, toward his own room at the back of the apartment.

“Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes!” she yelled after him.

Esther poured herself a generous amount of shiraz and got out the butter. Things seemed to be getting worse with Gregers.