One afternoon, nearly two months after I’d arrived in Frederiksvaerk, Anna came into the shop smelling of smoke, her hair loose, shirt held together by two buttons near her sternum. She turned over the sign on the door. “We’re closing a couple of hours early today. We’ve an event of sorts tonight. You best go rest up. We’ll want you there tonight and it will go late.”
“An event of sorts?”
“A salon.” She came toward me, touched the hairs at my temples as if to push them out of my face, though it was her hair that was loose, frowzy. “You’ll see.” I was going to ask her if Bertram was coming but thought better of it. I’d received a couple of polite cards from him since I’d arrived. He hoped I was enjoying my work. He would visit soon. His words were as flat and dull as the paper on which he
