Chapter Text
“Happy birthday, Josefine!” Arne Larsen placed a small, fresh-baked cake before his great-niece and stepped back with a smile. The girl's eyes lit up with joy at this unexpected treat, and she reached for it before hesitating and looking to her father.
“Uncle Arne, I'm not sure I can —”
Arne waved his nephew to silence. “Our gift, August. Saffi baked this just for Josefine.” August Hansen wouldn't accept charity for himself or his daughter, though Arne knew this birthday supper at Arne's inn was a strain on his limited finances. He could not have afforded even a small cake in addition. “It's not every day a little girl turns nine.”
The sweet aroma of the cake warred with the smells of the inn, the savory scent of roast beef and the nutty aroma of beer, and with a whiff of fresh fish from August. He was a fishmonger, and the odor of fish sank into his pores and could not be entirely removed no matter how thoroughly he washed.
August beamed as he watched Josefine's careful precision in cutting the cake, ensuring they each got an equal share. Ever since she'd been old enough to manage utensils, she'd insisted on taking care of such chores, for August had been born without a right hand. His right arm ended a hand-span below his elbow, with a few tiny, rudimentary fingers on the stump.
Josefine was not the daughter of August's body, but of his brother Simon. Simon had married his girlfriend rather hurriedly a month before the army sent him to Kastrup Base. Three months later, Simon was dead along with everyone else at Kastrup Base, and three months after that, the young widow gave birth to Josefine. Announcing her intention to start a new life, she handed the infant over to Lulla, the oldest of Simon’s four siblings, and took ship to Sweden; no one had heard from her since. Since August's three surviving siblings were already married and had children, he adopted the child and showered her with all the love and attention she should have received from her natural parents.
Josefine and August had light brown hair and eyes, unlike Simon, who had been a blond with blue eyes. Though August was of average height and stocky build, while Josefine was slender and tall for nine, she resembled her uncle as much as if she'd been his daughter.
Later that evening, when the last patrons had walked away in the late April darkness, Arne, his daughter Saffi, his son Poul, and the server Carryn cleaned away the detritus of the day.
“I expected August's girlfriend to come with them,” Arne said.
“Yeah, that didn't work out,” Saffi replied. Thirty-five and a tall brunette, Saffi had helped at the inn since she was a toddler and was a superb cook. “Rebekka told me last week he broke up with that woman.” Rebekka was August's younger sister, a close friend of her cousin Saffi.
“Why so?”
“Because townies are morons. Present company excepted,” Saffi added with a nod to Carryn.
“So she says, despite having married one,” Carryn replied, grinning down at them as she swept the open wooden staircase that led to the rooms for let, currently empty. Short, stocky, and blonde, Carryn was in her early forties and had worked for Arne for half her life. She was herself a townie who had married Saffi's second cousin weeks before taking work at the inn.
Arne chuckled at their words, his thoughts naturally drifting to the tight-knit community of Little Copenhagen nestled within Rønne. He well knew the bond among those whose ancestors had survived the Great Dying together, a bond that had kept many in Little Copenhagen marrying within their community. His wife, Lillemor Søndergaard, had descended from the founding group, just as he had. Yet, as he glanced at Saffi and then at Carryn, he approved of the way some, like his daughter and her cousin, had built bridges with the wider community by marrying outside the traditional circle.
“Lars is different. Anyway, that woman took it upon herself to tell August how happy he'd be when he had children of his own.”
Arne and Carryn rolled their eyes at each other, and Poul glanced at them, puzzled. At thirty, he had the mind of a young teen, and his father and sister hadn’t tried to clarify for him August’s relationship to Josefine. With a shrug, he returned to wiping down sturdy, handmade wooden chairs and tables. Old floorboards creaked under his feet, and the sharp smell of vinegar followed his rag.
Arne shook his head, but said nothing. August was a kind-hearted, loyal, hard-working man who could make some woman a good husband. The Little Copenhagen community fully accepted him with his disability and honored his decision to adopt his brother's child. Nearly everyone made their living from the sea, so to them, his scent of fish was the scent of success.
Yet August was thirty-two and still hadn't found a wife. He would have married within Little Copenhagen, but the community was so small and so tight-knit that there were only two women near his age who were unmarried and not his close kin … and he and they just hadn't clicked. He would have to find a wife among the townies, and townies were a mixed lot. Carryn was an excellent employee; Saffi's husband, Lars, was a skilled and reliable sailor. But Simon's wife — widow, that is — had abandoned her daughter without a care.
There was nothing Arne could do for his nephew. He focused on his work and forgot about August's problems for several weeks.
In mid-June, Arne welcomed Mikkel and Mette Madsen to the inn with a smile. With the inn near empty in the mid-afternoon, the visitors had their choice of tables; they took a back table and waved for Arne to join them.
“Well, Mikkel,” Arne said, “I didn't expect you back so soon. And you walked?” He signalled Carryn to bring them mugs of cool fresh water, seeing they'd had a long walk in the heat. “Have you found a job?” Mikkel, a quarter century Arne's junior, had been his friend almost since the day seventeen-year-old Mikkel walked into the inn, some fifteen years before. During that time, Mikkel had joined and been discharged from the army, had travelled all over the Known World, and had held many jobs in Rønne, losing them because of his pranks and resistance to authority. Most recently, he'd returned to his family's extensive farm after losing another job.
“No, not quite —”
“We had to leave because Mille's mad at him,” Mette said with a grin. She was above average height for a woman and sported dark curly hair and bright blue eyes. Arne had met her before but didn't know her well.
Arne narrowed his eyes, trying to remember a “Mille” among the Madsens. Mikkel and Mette were two of seven children, with Mikkel and his twin brother the eldest and Mette the baby of the family, just twenty-two. “Mille? Oh — isn't she the one with the Orphans?” Her children's fathers had died at Kastrup; such children were referred to as “Orphans.” At the Madsens' nods, Arne went on with some trepidation, “So what did he do to Mille?”
Mette's grin grew broader. “He got in a fight with her boyfriend, Sven.”
Arne looked at his friend in dismay. Mikkel was tall, broad-shouldered, and heavily muscled, with wavy dark blond hair and magnificent sideburns, though he was otherwise clean-shaven. He'd never been violent — well, except that once —
“We didn't come to blows,” Mikkel said with an amused glare at his little sister. He turned to Arne. “A blacksmith should have more pride in his work. That man's — that person's horse … I could have shod that poor animal better.”
Carryn removed the water mugs and set mugs of beer in front of them, good heavy pre-Rash plastic mugs with the heads just spilling over. She lingered nearby to hear the story, for she and Mikkel had long been friends.
“And he told Sven that,” Mette said, “in detail, with lots and lots of words. And then Sven threatened him —”
“He squared up on me. Me! That person thought his blacksmith's muscles would intimidate me.”
“So Mikkel just folded his arms and said, 'Okay, hit me, big man.' ” Mette pressed her fists together in glee. Arne chuckled. There were few men who could rock Mikkel with a single blow, and fewer still so foolish as to try it.
“I think he really thought about it,” Mikkel said with a faint smile. “But he had the good sense to back down. He said our whole family was crazy, and what he said about Mille —” Mikkel clenched his jaw.
“Yeah, that's when Mille ran away crying, and Papa told Sven to leave and never come back, or we'd set the dogs on him. And then Mikkel said —”
“No need to repeat that. I was furious. And he rode away on that poor horse with the horseshoes coming loose. No animal deserves a master like that.” He took a deep, angry draught from his beer.
“And Mille was mad at Mikkel?” Arne asked in some disbelief.
“She's lonely.” Mette's amusement faded. “I mean, she's got the kids, and we all help her, but a husband's different, you know? There's just a few of our male cousins that aren't married — I mean, that are close to her age.”
“Three,” Mikkel said. “Not much choice there, and they don't … fit.” He shrugged. “She needs someone from outside, but it's hard, with three kids. So she was mad at me for running off Sven —”
“Well, really, Papa ran him off.”
“But I started it. She's better off alone than with him. If he'd threaten a grown man just for questioning his skill, you don't even know what he might do to a wife. Or to children.” Mikkel glanced at Arne before taking a sip from his beer. “She'll cool down and realize that. In a while.”
Arne avoided further Madsen family drama when a group arrived for a late lunch. It was not until that night that a thought occurred to him. Mille had limited marriage prospects among the Madsens, and August had equally limited prospects in Little Copenhagen. Together, they just might solve each other's problems.
With a little help.