The Lost Village by Camilla Sten (best fiction novels TXT) 📗

the best solution would be just to do the rounds of the nearest houses and check the pantries. Surely there would be something: some foods don’t go off, and it doesn’t need to be gourmet. So long as we get some nonpoisonous calories in us, it doesn’t matter where they come from.

When the others nodded I sat up and said I could go.

Emmy told Robert to go with me, and he nodded without protest. We’ve been told to contact them every fifteen minutes so they know we’re safe.

I wonder if Robert would ever challenge Emmy; he seems to view her authority as absolute. I wonder what it feels like to have that sort of power over another person. My relationships have never been like that. Either they’re not interested and I’m left pining, or I’m not interested and they get angry; somehow I always end up losing. Pathetic or cold-hearted, nothing in between.

Still, I’m glad I have Robert with me. It’s nice not to be here on my own—not that the others would have let me go alone. They don’t trust me. Knowing that rubs a bit, but at the same time they’re absolutely right: I don’t think we’ll find any food, I just wanted a chance to look for Tone. Dragging Robert around with me is a small price to pay to be able to keep an eye out for her—for a trace, a hint, anything that could tell me where she might be.

“On to the next one, then,” says Robert, and I nod.

When we come back out onto the street, the sun has disappeared completely. All that’s left of daylight is the fiery spectacle playing out above the treetops, but even that will soon fade. We’re standing on the street that runs along the river, and from here most of Silvertjärn is visible: the teeming roofs, the river that cuts through the center, and the lake, dark and deceitful like a promise.

Robert looks at his chunky black wristwatch.

“It’s been fifteen minutes,” he says. He takes his walkie-talkie out of his belt.

“Robert here,” he says into the microphone. I hear a tinny echo of his words from the speaker in my jeans pocket. “We’re on our way to—Alice, what are you doing?”

I’ve already taken a few steps before I realize what I’m looking at.

That has to be it. No question.

A little yellow house by the river.

It’s a cottage, like all of the others, on the middle of a small patch of land that has long since been overrun by the vegetation jostling along the riverbank. It seems to have held out better than the other houses on the street: the roof hasn’t fallen in, and the door is intact.

A green door.

All of the houses on that street were yellow, but ours was the only one with a green door.

The green paint has faded and started to peel. At one point it must have been a bright emerald green, but years of sun and wind and snow have turned it into a washed-out bottle green that’s peeling away from the grayish wood underneath.

Still.

I look up and down the street, to make extra sure. Yes, every other house is yellow. But none of them has a green door.

It made me feel special.

“Alice, what are you doing?”

Robert sounds unexpectedly nervy, so I turn around to look at him. He’s let go of the talk button and is staring at me.

“It’s my grandma’s house,” I explain.

Robert blinks. He looks at me, then the house.

“Oh,” he says. “Oh shit.”

He studies the house with the green door for a few seconds, but then he shakes his head.

“You know what we said. Water, food, back. We’re safer as a group.”

“There could be food in there,” I persevere. “We can just step inside. Quickly.”

Robert shakes his head.

“No,” he says.

I look back at the house.

“Robert, she could be in there,” I say, quietly. “Tone knows which house it is. She might still recognize it—it might even feel safe to her. There are two of us, and she … she isn’t dangerous, I promise. Can’t we just go take a look?” I start rambling: “Plus we were going to check one more house, anyway. This is one more house. There might be food!”

Robert looks at the house, and I can see the doubt storming over his freckles. I say nothing more. I just look him in the eye, trying to seem stable and sincere. I can’t let my desperation show.

Then he gives a short, sharp sigh and brings his walkie-talkie to his lips.

“Robert here. We’re OK. We may be a little longer than expected.”

He waits for Emmy’s quick, tinny: “OK,” and then gives me a faint smile.

I could kiss him, but I make do with a simple “Thanks.”

Robert reattaches his walkie-talkie to his waistband.

“But if we don’t find her there, how about we don’t mention this to Emmy?”

I nod.

“Of course.”

The house is in a worse state up close. Something that must be some sort of lichen has grown over most of the front steps. The door handle on the faded green door glistens in the dying light.

I put my hand on it and push down. The door opens without a creak.

It’s dark inside. We come straight into a small, low hallway with wallpapered walls. On the right there’s a staircase to the second floor, and straight ahead there’s a small, anonymous door that must lead to a bathroom. The kitchen is to the left.

The same layout as in the other houses. Nothing remarkable.

Still, it feels like it unlocks something inside me.

I walk hungrily into the kitchen, my eyes like target-seeking missiles. Tone, to my shame, is temporarily forgotten: I’m soaking up all I can. This was their home; where they lived. Here, on these eccentric turquoise Windsor chairs, is where they would sit, talk, and eat; around this rustic table, with a round burn mark at one of the ends. Elsa. Staffan. Aina. Grandma.

I squat down and run my fingers over the rag rug, which has so many colors that