A haystack.
“Ingrid!” She whirled around, dropped Minna against the stack—the girl didn’t move, she was as inert as a doll. Gerda ran back a few steps; she heard crying, grabbed something alive, and it was—another miracle!—Ingrid. Then she dragged the child back to the haystack, and with a fury—a hunger—Gerda began to paw at the hay. It was freezing, sharp, it bit at her hands, fighting back. But after how long, she did not know—she only knew that she was both drenched in perspiration and numb with cold—she had carved out an opening, a tiny cave barely large enough to shove Minna and Ingrid inside and maybe she could squeeze herself in there, too. It was something, anyway, and she crawled in after them as far as she could. She fell on her back, gazing up at darkness but it was quiet now, so quiet her ears popped; the wind was muffled, she heard her own breathing, and another ragged little breath beside her. But from the silent, frozen mound of clothes and flesh at her head, there came no sound.
“Minna,” she croaked hoarsely, but a blanketing exhaustion overwhelmed her. She was sinking now, sinking in this tiny space, straw tickling her nose. It was still cold—colder down at her feet than at her head, although she could barely sense that, as she could not feel her feet—but they were out of the worst of it. They would stay here until it passed over. Minna was surely asleep, that was all; Ingrid had stopped crying, and must have fallen asleep, as well.
It was so quiet. She was only aware of her own breathing, shallow breaths coming further apart than she’d ever felt. It was like drowning, but she had never known anyone who had drowned, had only read about it in books. Her lungs filled up with something other than air, and she felt her eyes close, her body grow limp.
She tried to stay awake; she began to count backward from one hundred. Ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven, ninety-six, ninety-five.
“Ingrid,” she murmured, lips so numb she could barely move them. “Ingrid, now it’s your turn, go on, keep counting…Raina, why don’t you ask her…”
But Ingrid didn’t answer; neither did Minna. And Raina was strangely silent, too.
Gerda didn’t care any longer; she gave in, the waves crashed over her, pressing her down, down, down into the cold, hard earth.
CHAPTER 16
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SHE TIGHTENED THE SCARF ABOUT her head, tried to cover her ears, then quickly reached around to hold Enid firmly in place, even though the child’s legs were wrapped around Raina’s waist. Her other hand gripped Arvid’s, whose wheezing was almost loud enough to compete with the roar of the wind.
Raina turned around, eyes shutting against the stinging wind and snow as hard as buckshot, but she forced her eyes open. She shouted, desperate to be heard, desperate to hear.
“Children! Roll call!”
Ears straining, she heard the tiny voices, weaker this time than the last. First Tor—reassuring, knowing he was there at the end of this bedraggled line—then Sofia, Rosa, Eva, Albert, Clara, Tana, Walter, Daniel, Arvid.
“Enid,” the little girl whispered in her ear, and Raina closed her eyes, allowing herself to be thankful for this one moment, this moment when she knew they were all still alive, still together. Then she had to let go of that moment and forge ahead toward the next.
And it was in this way, inch by inch, stopping periodically for the children to claim their names, that Raina led her little band of schoolchildren toward what she desperately prayed was the Halvorsans’ farm.
She couldn’t rely on Tor for directions, although she trusted he would let her know if she was badly off. But he was there, was Tor; he was at her back, strong and steady and honest. Her guilt at not letting him run off after his brother was ever-present, whispering in her ear when Enid wasn’t. She had let him down badly, and he would blame her for the rest of his days if something happened to Fredrik. But there were so many things to feel guilty for lately; one more seemed like nothing, just one more drop into an almost-full bucket.