The front door creaked open just as the sky turned lavender with the lingering blush of the midnight sun. Cold air rushed in with the scent of salt and fish, followed by Chris—disheveled, grinning, and smelling strongly of the sea.
His hair was windswept in every direction, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, and his jeans bore the unmistakable stains of actual labor. A streak of something—possibly mackerel—ran along his forearm.
"Uncle Henry says I work better than three of his grandsons combined," he declared proudly as he stepped inside. "Although I'm fairly certain that's mostly because his grandsons don't exist."
Jefrey looked up from the armchair. "Let me guess—you were gutting fish and solving generational trauma?"
Chris dropped into the nearest chair with a theatrical sigh. "Cleaning nets, mostly. And bailing a boat that technically should've sunk last summer. Uncle Henry called it 'a survivor.' It's got more holes than our high school ethics essays."
Amanda peeked in from the hallway, nose wrinkled. "You reek, by the way."
"That's the smell of virtue, darling," Chris replied. "Hard work. Sea sweat. Generosity."
Beth entered from the kitchen, tucking something into her pocket—the note. "So you actually helped him?"
Chris beamed. "Of course I did. Uncle Henry's old and suspicious and wildly grumpy, but he's got a good heart. We talked about cricket, sea shanties, and his fourth ex-wife. He even let me tie the ropes. Said I have 'the hands of a man born to the sea.'"
Jefrey groaned. "He says that to everyone. He said that to the postman last year."
"I am the postman of kindness," Chris retorted without missing a beat. "Anyway, you lot went walking without me, so someone had to uphold the family name with good deeds and exposure to hypothermia."
Amanda crossed her arms. "You're seriously the most confusing person I know. You'll skip a hike to rewatch Troy, but spend hours helping a man who smokes fish in his living room."
Chris shrugged, smirking. "Look, I contain multitudes. Some of them wear armor and die for love. Some of them haul nets in wet boots and fix broken latches because no one else thought to."
And for all the teasing, no one could argue with that. Because despite everything—his celebrity crushes, his flair for drama, his endless monologues about Bloom—Chris had always shown up. Every summer, without fail. Helping old fishermen. Fixing bent railings. Giving away his allowance to buy rusted tools for people he barely knew.
Beth looked at him with a quiet smile. "Uncle Henry's lucky to have you."
Chris straightened a little, half serious now. "He is. And so are you. All of you. Don't forget it."
He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small smoked fish wrapped in brown paper, and set it ceremoniously on the table.
"For dinner," he said. "Or a gift. Or a bribe."
Jefrey leaned over it with a sniff. "Smells like seawater and trust issues."
Chris winked. "Just like me."
The morning broke pale and clear, with a soft breeze curling in from the sea, carrying the sound of gulls and the scent of tide-washed rocks. Reine glistened under the slow-rolling sunlight, and the house bustled quietly with movement.
Chris had gone off early, his arms loaded with jars of jam and some mysterious knitted item Grandma Sophie insisted on delivering personally to a friend across the village. He went without complaint, offering his usual dramatic "escort service" to "Her Royal Matriarch Sophie," complete with exaggerated bows and commentary on Lofoten's "queenly light."
Inside, Amanda stood near the door, lacing up her boots. She wore her black hoodie tied around her waist and had a folded map in hand—though she rarely needed it anymore. Her walks were daily ritual.
"You coming?" she asked, glancing toward Beth, who hovered uncertainly by the window.
Beth hesitated, heart hammering. The note from Lenored was folded tightly in her pocket, the words burned into her memory. The hill. Today. Soon.
"I… think I'll stay back," she said finally, doing her best to sound casual. "Headache."
She regretted it the second it left her mouth. Across the room, Jefrey looked up from his laptop, pen paused mid-sentence.
"You okay?" he asked, brows drawing together, his tone quiet but concerned.
Beth offered a thin smile. "Yeah, just a little tired. The walk yesterday, maybe."
Amanda straightened, frowning faintly. "You sure? Fresh air usually helps."
Beth nodded too quickly. "I'll be fine."
Amanda watched her a second longer, then gave a slow shrug. "Alright. I'll be back in an hour or so. Try not to die of boredom."
Beth laughed softly, a little forced. Amanda left, her boots crunching on the gravel outside, and the door shut behind her.
Jefrey returned his focus to his screen, the glow of an Excel chart reflecting in his glasses. He scribbled something in his notebook, then paused again, glancing at her sidelong.
"You'd say if something was wrong, right?" he asked, not pressing, but serious.
Beth felt her guilt pinch harder. Lying wasn't easy—not to him. Not to Jefrey, who noticed things others didn't.
"I promise," she said gently.
He nodded slowly and returned to his work, flipping through pages of notes and referencing economic models that looked like a foreign language to her.
Beth slipped out a moment later, quietly. The house was still. Her pulse quickened as she stepped out onto the path that led to the hill beyond Reine—where something waited not entirely of this world.
Or maybe just someone.
But the truth was… she wanted to see him again. Needed to. Even if she still wasn't sure why.
Back in the small bedroom she shared with Amanda, Beth closed the door behind her with a soft click. The light filtered through the lace curtains in a warm, trembling hush, casting delicate shadows on the wooden floor. The room smelled faintly of sea air and lavender from Amanda's perfume bottle on the dresser.
Beth stood in the middle of the room, her heart thudding far too loud for the stillness. She reached for the little floral pouch tucked in Amanda's drawer—the one Amanda didn't think Beth knew about, but of course she did. Beth always knew where her sister hid things. That pouch held contraband: mascara, lip tint, and a small compact of blush the exact color of rose petals right before they turned brown.
She hesitated.
She wasn't allowed. Mum wouldn't approve. Mrs. Gibson had always said, "No makeup until college. Keep your face yours until you know who you are underneath."
But today wasn't about rules. Today was about something else. Something that made her feel fourteen and twenty-five all at once.
So Beth dabbed a whisper of color onto her lips, then lightly brushed blush across her cheeks—barely enough to notice, but enough that she noticed. She blinked at herself in the mirror. Her deep blue eyes looked sharper somehow. Haunted in a different way.
Then came the clothes.
She tried everything. Her favorite green jumper—too plain. The white linen dress—too much like a ghost. The navy skirt with the embroidery Amanda hated—too stiff. She layered, unlayered, held things against herself and dropped them in a heap on the bed. Her movements were frantic and quiet, like someone trying to reinvent themselves while keeping it a secret.
Eventually, she pulled Amanda's dark wool cloak from the hook by the door. It was long, dramatic, with a collar that curved like the edge of a raven's wing. She hesitated again.
Amanda would absolutely kill her if she knew.
Beth put it on.
Then she wrapped Amanda's grey scarf around her neck, the ends soft and heavy against her chest.
She turned to the mirror again.
She didn't look like a child anymore.
She didn't quite look like herself either.
Beth looked like someone who might belong in a poem. Like someone who could speak to someone named Lenored A. Forchevelle without trembling out of her skin.
She slipped the note into the pocket of the cloak and smoothed her hair, which refused to obey entirely. She ignored the guilt in her gut. Amanda would never understand. Not this. Not him.
Outside the window, the morning had fully bloomed. The fjord shimmered. Somewhere up the hill, someone was waiting.
Beth turned, slipped out the door—and did not look back.
Beth hovered by the front door, her hand on the latch, heart thudding in her chest like it knew she was doing something dangerous—even if no one else would think it was. She peeked through the window. No sign of Amanda on the road yet. Good. She'd likely taken the longer loop toward Sakrisøy.
Amanda had a predictable tendency: no matter how short she claimed her walks would be, if she ran into anyone—a local, a dog owner, a fisherman who vaguely resembled someone from a TV show—she would inevitably fall into gossip. Not polite conversation. Gossip. Beth had seen it too many times. Amanda could stretch an errand into a minor epic just by striking up a chat with someone's grandmother.
Beth whispered under her breath, half-prayer, half-plea:
"Please get stuck talking about nothing for ten hours…"
She opened the door slowly, carefully avoiding the telltale squeak in the hinge, and stepped outside, wrapping the cloak tightly around her. The wool was heavier than she was used to, but it felt like armor. The scarf smelled like Amanda—vanilla and that almond-scented conditioner she always hoarded.
Just as she was about to slip off the porch, she caught sight of Jefrey through the window, sitting at the table, eyes locked on his laptop.
Her heart froze.
He was chewing the cap of a pen, brows furrowed, clearly knee-deep in summer work. She hoped desperately that his mind was buried in marginal utility and not her outfit.
She took one slow, cautious step onto the gravel—then another.
Jefrey didn't look up.
Good.
Beth kept walking, slow at first, then quicker as the house shrank behind her, her boots crunching on the stones, the hem of Amanda's cloak swaying with her steps.
And still, her heart beat wildly—not just from guilt or fear of being caught.
But because he might really be waiting. On a hill. In the light. With eyes the color of violet sea.
Beth reached the crest of the hill, her breath catching—not from the climb, but from the sight that greeted her.
Lenored stood there beneath the trembling sky, framed by the jagged peaks and the glittering fjord far below. The wind tugged gently at the edges of his black velvet coat, which shimmered faintly like it had been spun from shadows. His hair, somewhere between gold and ashen brown, fluttered around his pale face like a halo misplaced. And his eyes—those impossible ocean-violet eyes—caught the light like stars trapped in glass.
He smiled when he saw her, and in that smile was something playful, and something else—something that made her feel like she'd stepped into a story that had no genre.
"You look amazing," he said, voice warm and full of mischief.
Beth flushed immediately, her fingers tightening on Amanda's scarf.
"I like your hair. Your cloak. Your scarf. Your shoes." His eyes sparkled. "You know what?"
He lifted one black-gloved hand, elegant as a pianist's, and pointed to the breast pocket of his coat.
"If you were small enough," he said with a grin, "and if you promised not to scream, I'd tie you up and tuck you right here to take home with me."
Beth blinked, stunned, and then burst into startled laughter.
Lenored winked. "But unfortunately, you're far too old to kidnap. Pity."
He turned on his heel, boots crunching softly on the grass. "Come on. The hill's better from the other side."
Still laughing, still blushing, Beth followed him. Her heart felt like it was both floating and falling—giddy, uncertain, utterly alive.