It was harder for the ones who were waiting, Annemarie knew. Less danger, perhaps, but more fear.
She yawned, and her head nodded. She fell asleep, and it was a sleep as thin as the night clouds, dotted with dreams that came and went like the stars.
Light woke her. But it was not really morning, not yet. It was only the first hint of a slightly lightening sky: a pale gleam at the edge of the meadow, a sign that far away somewhere, to the east where Sweden still slept, morning would be coming soon. Dawn would creep across the Swedish farmland and coast; then it would wash little Denmark with light and move across the North Sea to wake Norway.
Annemarie blinked in confusion, sitting up, remembering after a moment where she was and why. But it was not right, the pale light at the horizon—it should be dark still. It should still be night.
She stood stiffly, stretching her legs, and went to the hall to look at the old clock. It was past four o'clock.
Where was Mama?
Perhaps she had come home, not wanted to wake Annemarie, and had gone to bed herself. Surely that was it. Mama must have been exhausted; she had been up all night, had made the dangerous journey to the boat, and returned through the dark woods, wanting only to sleep.
Quickly Annemarie went up the narrow staircase. The door to the bedroom where she had slept with Ellen was open. The two small beds were neatly made, covered with the old quilts, and empty.
Beside it, Uncle Henrik's door was open, too; and his bed, too, was unused and empty. Despite her worry, Annemarie smiled slightly when she saw some of Henrik's clothes crumpled in a chair and a pair of shoes, caked with the barnyard dirt, lying on the floor.
He needs a wife, she said to herself, imitating Mama.
The door to the other bedroom, the one Kirsti and Mama were sharing, was closed. Quietly, not wanting to wake them, Annemarie pushed it open.
The kitten's ears moved, standing up straight; its eyes opened wide, and it raised its head and yawned. It pried itself out of Kirsti's arms, stretched, and then jumped lightly to the floor and came to Annemarie. It rubbed itself against her leg and purred.
Kirsti sighed and turned in her sleep; one arm, free now of the kitten's warmth and comfort, flung itself across the pillow.
There was no one else in the wide bed.
Annemarie moved quickly to the window, which overlooked the clearing that led to the path's entrance. The light outside was still very dim, and she peered through the dimness, trying to see, looking for the opening in the trees where the path began, looking for Mama hurrying home.
After a second she saw a shape there: something unfamiliar, something that had not been there the day before. A dark shape, no more than a blurred heap, at the beginning of the path. Annemarie squinted, forcing her eyes to understand, needing to understand, not wanting to understand.
The shape moved. And she knew. It was her mother, lying on the earth.
13. Run! As Fast As You Can!
Still moving quietly so as not to wake her sister, Annemarie sped down the stairs and through the kitchen door. Her foot caught the loose step and she faltered for a moment, righting herself, then dashed across the ground to the place where her mother lay.
"Mama!" she called desperately, "Mama!"
"Shhh," Mama said, raising her head. "I'm all right!"
"But, Mama," Annemarie asked, kneeling beside her, "what's wrong? What happened?"
Her mother pulled herself to a sitting position. She winced in pain. "I'm all right, really. Don't worry. And the Rosens are with Henrik. That's the important thing."
She smiled a little, though her face was drawn with pain and she bit her lip, the smile fading. "We got there quite quickly, even though it was still so dark and it was difficult for the Rosens, not knowing the path. Henrik was there waiting, on the boat, and he took them aboard and down below so quickly to the cabin that they were invisible in an instant. He said the others were already there; Peter got them there safely, too.
"So I turned and hurried home. I was so anxious to get back to you girls. I should have been more careful." Talking softly, she brushed some grass and dirt from her hands.
"Can you believe it? I was very nearly here—well, maybe just halfway—when I tripped over a root and went sprawling."
Mama sighed. "So clumsy," she said, as if she were scolding herself. "I'm afraid my ankle is broken, Annemarie. Thank goodness it is nothing worse. An ankle mends. And I am home, and the Rosens are with Henrik.
"You should have seen me, Annemarie," she said, shaking her head with a wry look. "Your proper mama, crawling inch by inch! I probably looked like a drunkard!"
She reached for Annemarie's arm. "Here, let me lean on you. I think if you support me on this side, I can make my way up to the house. Goodness, what a clumsy fool I am! Here, let me put my arm over your shoulders. You're such a good, strong, brave girl. Now—very slowly. There."
Mama's face was white with pain. Annemarie could see it even through the faint light of the approaching dawn. She hobbled, leaning heavily on her daughter, pausing again and again, toward the house.
"When we get inside, I'll have a cup of tea and then we'll call the doctor. I'll tell him that I fell on the stairs. You'll have to help me wash away the grass and twigs. Here, Annemarie, let me rest for a minute."
They had reached the house, and Mama sank down to the steps and sat. She took several deep breaths.
Annemarie sat beside her and held her hand. "Mama, I was so worried when you didn't come back."
Mama nodded. "I knew you would be. I thought of you, worrying, as I dragged myself along. But here I am—safe with you, now. Everything is fine. What time is it?"
"It must be four-thirty, or close to it."
"They will sail soon." Mama turned her head and gazed across the meadow to the sea and the vast sky above it. There were no stars now, only the gray, pale sky, with pinkness at its border. "Soon they will be safe, too."
Annemarie relaxed. She stroked her mother's hand and looked down at the discolored, swollen ankle.
"Mama, what is this?" she asked suddenly, reaching into the grass at the foot of the steps.
Mama looked. She gasped. "Oh, my God," she said.
Annemarie picked it up. She recognized it now, knew what it was. It was the packet that Peter had given to Mr. Rosen.
"Mr. Rosen tripped on the step, remember? It must have fallen from his pocket. We'll have to save it and give it back to Peter." Annemarie handed it to her mother. "Do you know what it is?"