Fog Island. Mariette Lindstein

rule he probably hadn’t even come up with himself. Besides, Sofia’s emphatic tone had brought all the work in the big room outside to a grinding halt, and many watchful eyes were on them now. A few colleagues had stood up and were aiming looks of disapproval at her.

      She stormed out of the room, determined to declare war as soon as she had gathered her thoughts.

      It was impossible to concentrate on her job once she returned to the library. The wind was even stronger now; it whistled in the eaves. The windows were even rattling.

      She turned on her computer and decided to surf the net, mostly just to defy Bosse. She Googled her name. It had been a long time, but her rage made her feel brave and she wanted to make sure that Ellis had stopped blogging about her.

      Up popped a new page called ‘Sofia Bauman’s Blog,’ and she clicked on it right away.

      At first she thought it must be a mistake, that the face staring back at her belonged to someone else. Or that it was an old entry. But then she began to read the text and realized at once that Ellis hadn’t vanished from her life after all.

      Save Sofia Bauman from the cult! the headline read, and the text underneath continued along the same lines. There was even a picture of Franz Oswald in the corner, horns drawn onto his forehead.

      She sat perfectly still for a long time, trying to calm herself as a burning chill spread along her nerves.

      She didn’t even want to know how many people had read the blog; she only wanted it to go away. She wanted something to happen to Ellis, a terrible accident, anything, as long as it would put a stop to him from here on out. It was inconceivable that he could still make her feel so awful even when she was on an island out in the archipelago.

      How can he even get at me out here? she thought, then decided that in fact, he couldn’t.

      But then she thought about the blog again and wondered what would happen if Oswald got wind of it.

      We’ve spent a whole day looking for the diary, the family history — whatever the hell it is.

      Lily is tired and whiny, and I feel like I might smack her at any moment.

       ‘I don’t want to be here, Fredrik. It’s too warm and icky and it smells nasty. Can’t we do something fun instead? Please?’

      ‘We have to find the book,’ I say, gritting my teeth.

       ‘But why is it so important to find some old book?’

       ‘There’s stuff in it I’m going to use.’

       ‘For what?’

       ‘To prove who I am.’

       ‘Oh, come on. Hey, can’t we go now? Take a swim or something?’

      I stand up, take her by the arms, and give her a firm shake.

       ‘Who is in charge here, huh? Stop nagging me, or else . . .’

      She is frightened and recoils. And at that moment I figure out what happened and I let go of her.

       ‘She hid it, of course,’ I say. ‘That bitch hid it away.’

       ‘What bitch?’

       ‘Mom. She doesn’t want me to find it.’ I decide to switch tactics on Lily. ‘Listen, if you find the book I’ll take you down to the village and buy you some ice cream, and then we can go for a swim at the cliff.’

      Her whole face lights up.

       ‘Promise?’

       ‘I said it, didn’t I?’

      She’s suddenly full of energy. She darts around until the dust swirls up, pulling out drawers, yanking things off the shelves. And then the unthinkable happens. Suddenly she’s standing there with a book in her hands, wrinkling her nose as she tries to make out what it says inside.

      ‘Give it here!’ I shout. Because I know, I just know, that she’s found it.

      I yank it from her hands and sink to the floor, flipping pages and looking for the part that just has to be there. And when I find it, it’s like the doors of heaven open, revealing angels, strings, harps, the whole nine yards. Adrenaline surges through my body like a rising flood.

      That’s when I see a little corner poking out from the back cover of the diary — something is hidden there.

      I pull the envelope out and open it. Photographs fall into the book.

      I moan when I see what they are.

      The girl in the picture can’t be more than twelve or thirteen. She’s standing against a wall, naked, her hands bound high over her head. She’s in profile, but I recognize the man pressed up against her body, a whip in his hand. He’s younger in the picture, but it’s definitely him.

      This is so huge, so timely, that I almost forget to breathe.

      I just stand there, listening to Lily’s gasping breaths behind me.

      Whoever left the pictures there was careless, idiotic.

      But they’re a windfall for me.

9

      There was a hard rap on the door. The room was pitch black, as usual, but she could tell instinctively that it was still night-time. The lights came on gradually and Madeleine, who was sitting up in bed, became visible. The clock on the wall read twenty past four. There was another rap, impatient and frantic.

      ‘Assembly in the dining room in ten minutes! Wear jeans!’

      It was Bosse’s voice. Angry and harsh. Sofia thought something must have happened — an accident or emergency of some sort. She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep, but it couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours — she had lain awake for a long time brooding about Ellis and the blog.

      Elvira was also awake by that point, and she looked terrified, the blanket drawn up to her chin.

      ‘What’s going on?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ Madeleine said. ‘But we have to get dressed and run down to the dining room.’

      They staggered around the room, pulling on jeans and whatever they could find in the dresser drawers.

      ‘Do you have any idea what it might be?’ Sofia tried again.

      ‘No, but Franz was up late. I probably shouldn’t have gone to bed.’

      Just about everyone else was already there when they arrived in the dining room. They were lined up in their usual way, with tired, pale faces, messy hair, and anxious eyes. The dining room was cold and damp. They could hear rain pattering against the windowpanes.

      Oswald was standing before them. He was wearing his usual outfit: black jeans and a T-shirt, and he had almost certainly not been to bed. But he didn’t look tired, only terribly angry.

       He read the blog!

      The thought hit her like the flick of a whip. It had to be. He had been surfing online; he had come across the disgusting blog and read the whole thing. She couldn’t think of any other reason he might gather them at four in the morning.

      A few stragglers came through the door and Oswald stared at them in annoyance.

      ‘Is everyone here?’ Bosse asked.

      Bosse walked around, inspecting the lines, counting and mumbling until he could declare that everyone was present except Katarina, the gardener.

      ‘She’s