Rigg began right after breakfast the next morning. “Would it be wrong of me to meet Onishtu’s family?”

“You already have,” he was told.

“I mean . . . would they mind if I asked them about her?”

“Maybe they would and maybe they wouldn’t,” he was told.

“How can I find out?”

“Ask them about her and see what happens.”

So when the father was pointed out to him among the men bringing in the bees, Rigg waited till he finished with one of the hives and then took him aside. “I don’t mean to give offense,” said Rigg. “But I believe that people leave behind a kind of aura, a trace of the path they took through the world. Your daughter Onishtu sounds like a person who would leave a path of joy, and if I can see where she lived, perhaps I can gain some bit of grace for having met her, even across all these years.”

Couching it in religious terms did the trick. The father wasn’t satisfying idle curiosity, he was allowing his long-missing daughter to give a gift to—and perhaps be admired and remembered by—this young stranger, ugly as his face might be.

So after supper, Rigg and Ram Odin went to their house, to the second story. All the houses had two stories, so when the bottom floor was completely buried in snow, they could still get out of the house and tend to the animals and other tasks.

“This was her room,” said the father. “It’s full of grand­children at the moment.”

“We kept it for her for a few years,” said the mother, “but we couldn’t afford to keep the room out of a hopeless hope, when there were people here with us who had need of it.” She sounded stern as she said it—as if she was rebuking herself for regretting the necessity.

Rigg found the girl’s path easily—it filled the place, during the years it had been her room. Rigg followed the most common routes—to the bed, to the window, to the small washstand, to the chest where clothes were kept. Now that he knew which path was hers, the facemask helped him see what she looked like. A gracious child, her hair long in gentle waves of ebony, her smile wide and welcoming. He saw her when she was alone, when she was with company. He saw how her path intertwined with others, and without leaving the room, traced her pattern of friendships.

“She had many friends,” said Rigg.

“Everyone loved her,” said her father.

“Don’t pretend to ‘feel’ what everybody already told you,” said the mother scornfully.