Page 1 of The Beautiful Ones

PROLOGUE

ELIN

Västerås, Sweden — 1862

The frost on my windowpane had grown into the shape of gardenia petals—or perhaps it was merely the desire of my heart.

I noticed it shortly after midnight, when the fire had burned low and the wind off Lake Mälaren rattled the timber walls of our cottage. Such flowers did not grow in Västerås, certainly not in winter, and I had not seen a real gardenia in fourteen years. Still, there they were—heavy, curling blossoms spreading across the glass as delicately as if some unseen hand had drawn them. I could almost smell them. Indeed, I tried by pulling in a deep sniff but there was nothing.

Not yet.

I pulled the woolen coverlet beneath my chin and tried to look away.

Beside me, Lars slept with one hand tucked beneath his cheek. He was a good man, my husband. Good in the way a good man was. A mortal man.

Steady as the granite foundation beneath our cottage and gentle with his hands, even when anger might have excused roughness. His coarse socks hung beside the hearth, filling the room with the faint smells of pine smoke, wet wool, and honest sweat.

I loved those smells. They belonged to the life I had been given, even if it wasn’t the life I first wanted.

The gardenias belonged to the Other.

A branch scraped against the roof. I closed my eyes, but sleep did not return. Instead, I became aware of a sweetness in the room, faint at first and then unmistakable.

As if the Other knew that I was longing to see him.

I sat up.

The perfume thickened, settling at the back of my throat. I knew that scent. Once, I had believed it beautiful. Later, it had made me afraid.

“Not here,” I whispered. “Not now.”

The words were foolish. This was the moment I had been waiting for.

Lars stirred but did not wake.

I slipped from the bed and pulled my shawl around my shoulders. The floorboards were cold beneath my feet. I crossed the room quietly and stood before the frosted window, searching the darkness beyond it.

Nothing moved outside. The lake lay still beneath the winter sky, a vast gray sheet disappearing into the night. Snow rested upon the roof of the cowshed and covered the path leading toward the road. No carriage waited beyond our gate. No stranger stood among the pine trees.

Of course no one was there. Perhaps I was dreaming…

I touched the glass. The cold bit my fingertips, but I did not move my hand. A gardenia petal spread beneath it, white veins reaching across the pane.

Had the frost truly formed that shape, or had my tired mind supplied the memory?

I did not know which answer frightened me more.

Behind me, Lars breathed deeply and rolled onto his back. I waited until he settled, then turned toward the bed.

The trunk was beneath it.

For years Lars had allowed that little iron-bound box to remain there without asking what it contained. He knew I had carried it home from America. He believed it held a few letters, some keepsakes, and the papers relating to my service in Virginia.

That was partly true.

I knelt and reached beneath the bed. The trunk scraped softly across the floorboards as I pulled it toward me. I paused, listening for any change in Lars’s breathing, but he slept on.

The brass key hung from a chain around my neck. My fingers trembled as I fitted it into the lock.