He explains what has happened today, what they suspect happened ten years ago, and what likely has happened several years in between, during the first heat waves of the season. “We suspect this cave has been around since approximately 1864, when Mount Vilox erupted. But the magma layer was thin here. What followed is a confluence of rare natural events. The root system is underdeveloped and weakened by the long winter,” the man says, moving his hand in the mystifying loose shape of a bowl as if to show the process, “and the heat wave softens the protective layer of ice holding up the soil and the root system. With pressure from above, it is possible to break through to the unexplored cave artery below.” He’s from the Ministry of the Environment, and he has tried to contain his obvious excitement at “rediscovering” this cave. I heard him chattering away on the phone to a colleague already. “We found a very old record of this cave’s existence—in a survey conducted prior to the twentieth century, it is shown as a small tunnel. But then it became part of this private land parcel in a sale after the turn of the century,” he continues, “and the cave itself has not been cataloged in a more recent survey.” He double-taps his clipboard jauntily. “Your sister has rediscovered an important geological phenomenon.”

I stare at him.

“So, good on her,” he adds obliviously.

“What about the cabin?” I ask. “What about the fire?”

“The fire was contained,” he replies. “The source was a generator.”

The black box. “But why was there a generator? There was never a generator when we used to live here.”

“Hmm?” He turns to me. “These aren’t questions for me, young lady.” He looks at the foxglove plants beyond us, taller than I am, and blooming proudly in freckled blush pink and white bells for the first time this season. “Hmm. My wife loves foxgloves. But I’ve never seen them grow to be quite so large in this region. Did you plant them yourself? What’s your secret?”

I sit there. “My secret? I didn’t plant them. They’ve just been here forever.” I think a moment, realize how imprecise I’m being. Mama loved foxgloves, and I remember her wanting them planted. “Someone would have planted them at least ten years ago.”

His brows knit together. “That’s not right. Foxgloves are biennials. They bloom the second year after planting and then die. I suppose they might have reseeded themselves, but…” He exhales from his nose, as if to say that’s deeply improbable. “They shouldn’t be alive, much less blooming.”

Did Dad have them planted again recently, in her memory? Or did they—by some strange Stökéwood magic—survive all these years? I try to quash the tears that have come to my eyes all of a sudden.