“Good God! Good God in heaven! You’re here—Papa, they’re here, they’re here! Tor and Fredrik and all the children, they’re here!”
Tor handed Rosa, who was deathly still, to his father who was towering and strong and so like her own papa, Raina wanted to weep again. After the others were all inside, Raina allowed Mrs. Halvorsan to grab her by the arms and pull her into the blessed protection of the house.
Raina stood, numb, while all around her was chaos. Mr. and Mrs. Halvorsan rushed about, crying out as they peeled icy layers off of their sons’ schoolmates. Raina could only slump against a wall, steeling herself for what was about to come.
“But—Fredrik? Where is Fredrik?” Mrs. Halvorsan’s voice rose higher and higher with panic.
“Tor, where is your brother?” Mr. Halvorsan’s booming voice almost shattered the windows. “Tell me, son, where is Fredrik?”
Raina shut her eyes as her body trembled even more than it had in the storm; she was still frozen. But not so frozen that her heart didn’t thunder with guilt.
She opened her eyes and caught Tor’s glance; he was looking at her accusingly. No longer were they the team that had brought these children to safety—she could only pray, because Rosa was barely breathing as Mrs. Halvorsan knelt before her, peeling off the icy stockings from her feet. Raina, once again, was the monster who had prevented Tor from following his little brother out into the storm.
“Fredrik went after Anette,” Raina began to explain shakily; her voice was raspy and frail. “Anette Pedersen. She ran out into the storm for home. Fredrik followed her, and Tor was about to go after him, but I wouldn’t let him. It’s my fault. I needed Tor to get these children safely here. I couldn’t have done this without him.”
The Halvorsans exchanged stricken looks; Mrs. Halvorsan hid her face in her hands and began to sob. Mr. Halvorsan, without a word, went to a coatrack and began to pile clothing on—coat, scarf, gloves.
“Papa!” Tor stumbled toward him. “Let me go, it’s my fault, let me—” But the boy was weak, too weak; Raina rushed after him, pulling him back. He turned on her, trying to push her away; he was fighting, still. But like a tired kitten fights, although his words contained venom.
“You!” He hit at Raina, his fist striking her shoulder, his eyes full of fury. “You stopped me! If something happened to him I’ll never, ever forgive you! Papa—don’t go out there! Don’t—let me!”
He twisted out of Raina’s grip, and flung himself at his father, who picked the strapping lad up as if he were a baby. Tor writhed and struggled and finally began to cry, a jagged, hoarse cry, but his father placed him in a chair with finality—pausing to gently kiss his eldest son on the forehead.
“I hate you. I hate you.” Tor threw the words at Raina, where they landed with surprising force, given his weakened state. “I’ll never forgive you, never.”
“I know,” she whispered, unnoticed by anyone in the room but Tor. The children were crying and Mr. Halvorsan walked over to his wife, who was standing now, feverishly knotting her apron in her hands.
“I’m going after him,” Mr. Halvorsan told his wife, who looked frantically out the window at the still raging storm and bit her lip. She couldn’t tell her husband not to go—and she couldn’t tell him he should, either.
But Raina could.
Weaker than ever, swaying on her own two feet, she stumbled after Fredrik’s father as he went toward the door.
“It’s madness. Look—it’s night already. You’ll never find him in the dark; they must be at the Pedersens’ by now. It’s suicide to go out there!”
“I have to find my son,” Mr. Halvorsan told her. In his eyes, she saw Tor’s determination and honor, and she knew she couldn’t stop this giant of a man—a father; not as she had stopped Tor.