Showcase The Glass Woman by Caroline Lea

This is one historical novel that I knew I had to read, a new wife follows her husband to Iceland in the 1680s. Yeah stay tuned for my review!
Enjoy the Showcase!

ISBN-13:
 9780062935106

Publisher: Harper Collins


Release Date: 9-3-2019


Length:
 400 pp

Source:
 Publisher for review (coming soon)

Buy It: Amazon/B&N/Kobo/IndieBound/Audible

ADD TO: GOODREADS

Overview:

Longlisted for the Historical Writers Association Debut Crown Award

Rósa has always dreamed of living a simple life alongside her Mamma in their remote village in Iceland, where she prays to the Christian God aloud during the day, whispering enchantments to the old gods alone at night. But after her father dies abruptly and her Mamma becomes ill, Rósa marries herself off to a visiting trader in exchange for a dowry, despite rumors of mysterious circumstances surrounding his first wife’s death.

Rósa follows her new husband, Jón, across the treacherous countryside to his remote home near the sea. There Jón works the field during the day, expecting Rósa to maintain their house in his absence with the deference of a good Christian wife. What Rósa did not anticipate was the fierce loneliness she would feel in her new home, where Jón forbids her from interacting with the locals in the nearby settlement and barely speaks to her himself.

Seclusion from the outside world isn’t the only troubling aspect of her new life—Rósa is also forbidden from going into Jón’s attic. When Rósa begins to hear strange noises from upstairs, she turns to the local woman in an attempt to find solace. But the villager’s words are even more troubling—confirming many of the rumors about Jón’s first wife, Anna, including that he buried her body alone in the middle of the night.

Rósa’s isolation begins to play tricks on her mind: What—or who—is in the attic? What happened to Anna? Was she mad, a witch, or just a victim of Jón’s ruthless nature? And when Jón is brutally maimed in an accident a series of events are set in motion that will force Rósa to choose between obedience and defiance—with her own survival and the safety of the ones she loves hanging in the balance.

In the tradition of Jane Eyre and Rebecca—The Glass Woman by Caroline Lea in which a young woman follows her new husband to his remote home on the Icelandic coast in the 1680s, where she faces dark secrets surrounding the death of his first wife amidst a foreboding landscape and the superstitions of the local villagers.

Read an excerpt:

Part One

Long shall a man be tried.

Icelandic proverb from The Saga of Grettir the Strong

Rósa

Skálholt, August 1686

Rósa sits in the baðstofa of the croft that newly belongs to her and her mamma. A biting plume of wind shafts through the gaps between the turf wall and the tiny window, which is made of pale sheepskin, shorn of wool and stretched, until it is thinner and more translucent than the expensive paper imported from Denmark.

She shivers as the wind plucks at her tunic, but still she huddles closer to the opening to catch the fading light, tugging her shawl about her shoulders.

She dips the quill into the precious pot of ink.

My dear Jón Eiríksson,

I write to beg your mercy and understanding, my husband. Your apprentice, Pétur, arrived today, with your kind gift of three woollen dresses and bade me to join you in Stykkishólmur. I wish to be a dutiful wife in this, our new marriage, but I regret I cannot join you

Rósa stops, bites her lip and pulls the shawl more closely around her. Then she scores out cannot and writes will not. Her hand wobbles and she presses down so hard that the quill snaps, spattering ink over her words.

Her eyes sting. She growls, balls up the paper and hurls it to the floor.

‘Pick that up, girl,’ her mother wheezes, from the opposite bed. ‘Are we richer than Niord to waste good paper and ink?’ A rattling cough bubbles from her chest.

‘Sorry, Mamma.’ Rósa smiles, teeth gritted, then picks up the paper, smoothing it over her knee. ‘I cannot think . . .’ She feels her mouth crumpling, and bites the inside of her cheek.

Her mother smiles. ‘You are nervous, of course. Your husband will know that, no matter what you write. I remember when I wed your father . . .’

Rósa nods mutely, a sudden stone in her throat.

Sigridúr’s smile fades. She pats the bed next to her. ‘This is not like you. Sit. Good. Now, what troubles you?’

Rósa opens her mouth to answer, but can find no words for the crushing panic she feels at the thought of leaving her village to live with this stranger, whom she must suddenly call ‘husband’. When she thinks of him, she cannot picture his face, but only his hands: strong and sun-darkened. She imagines them pulling on oars, or wringing a chicken’s neck.

Suddenly Sigridúr clasps Rósa’s hands. ‘No more of that!’ For a moment, Rósa wonders how her thoughts were so plain to see. Then she looks down at her hands and realizes that, without thinking, she had begun to trace the vegvísir on her hand.

‘No runes!’ Sigridúr hisses.

Rósa nods and clenches her hands into fists. ‘I know.’

‘You cannot know. You must remember. Your husband is not like your pabbi was. He will not blink and pretend not to see what is under his nose. You must quote nothing but Bible verses and hymns to him. No runes. No Sagas. You understand?’

‘I am not a fool, Mamma,’ Rósa whispers.

Sigridúr’s expression softens and she strokes Rósa’s cheek. ‘Do not fret. If his prayers become tiresome, you must wait until he’s asleep, then beat him over the head with his Bible and lock him outside in the snow.’

Despite herself, Rósa smiles.

Sigridúr snorts and adds, ‘For the huldufólk to feast upon.’

Rósa rolls her eyes. ‘Mamma, please. Not even in jest – you’ve said so.’

‘Don’t fuss,’ Sigridúr says. ‘There is no one to overhear us.’ She pauses and her eyes flash. ‘Besides, the huldufólk prefer to eat children.’

‘Mamma!’

Sigridúr holds up her hands. ‘I must laugh while I can, my love. Marriage.’ Her mouth twists. ‘And to a man from so far away.’

Rósa feels her panic rising again and crushes it. ‘Remember, Mamma, the new turf on the roof, the big stove. Peat to burn – it lights much better than manure. And Jón will trade with Copenhagen for wood for you when the ships arrive. Imagine wood to line the walls, Mamma. Furs instead of homespun. You will be warm all winter. In time, you will fight off this infection.’

‘Your pabbi taught you to argue, that is certain. And to be a fisherman’s wife. Such a waste.’

‘He is not simply a fisherman.’

‘Yes, goði is not a title to snivel at. I know he grows barley on his home farm and does good trade with the Danes. I heard his speech, just as you did. A pretty picture he painted. But people say –’

‘Rumours, Mamma, and we will pay them no mind.’

‘They say Jón’s first wife –’

‘Overblown stories.’ Rósa’s voice sounds harsh, even to her own ears, but it distracts her from the prickling sensation in her hands and feet whenever she imagines being alone with this man. Three nights ago, she had dreamed that her new husband was lying on top of her, but he had the head and shoulders of an Arctic bear. He leaned forward to kiss her, but opened his jaws wide and roared. The meaty stench of his breath had made her gag and she had woken retching. She worries that the dream is an omen and she has tried time and again to write to Jón, delaying the time when she must travel to Stykkishólmur. But then, when she listens to her mother’s wheezing, she knows her decision is right. Sometimes, when she closes her eyes, she sees not Jón’s face but another man’s – a face more familiar than her own. A hand reaching out to brush the hair back from her forehead. But she quashes that thought too, and says, ‘We won’t talk of Jón’s first wife. It’s jealous gossip, aimed at frightening me. You said so yourself.’

Sigridúr nods slowly, looking down at her hands, which are blue-laced with cold. ‘But, still, Stykkishólmur is four days’ hard ride away. The land is cruel, especially after the hard winter we had last year . . . They say there are ice floes in the sea that have not melted for twelve months. And why does he want you?’

‘Such a compliment, Mamma. You must stop, or my head will grow too big for the croft.’

‘Hush!’ Sigridúr grins. ‘I think the world of you, but . . . Why not a girl from his own village?’

Rósa has worried at the same question herself, but now she reaches across and clasps her mother’s cold fingers. ‘I must be irresistible.’

Sigridúr smiles sadly. ‘Your pabbi would have known what to do.’

‘I miss him too.’ Rósa embraces her, closing her eyes and inhaling the sour smell of wool and sweat that reminds her of her childhood.

Rósa’s father, Magnús, the Bishop of Skálholt, had died nearly two months earlier. It had started with stomach pains, but within a month his belly had swollen as if he were heavy with child.

The village had whispered, of course, that it was the work of some witch with a grudge, peeved perhaps that he had banned all runes and the casting of spells, where previous bishops had openly read from the Sagas and the Bible alike. Magnús had treated the rumours with contempt: he had denounced them from the pulpit and had threatened to have the gossips thrown from the church. It smothered the hissed rumours, but didn’t stop the 

illness raging through his body. He was dead before the Solstice, leaving little in the way of money or goods for his wife and daughter. Magnús had sold the lavish croft with its glass windows and wood-lined walls, giving the money to the upkeep of the church. He had chosen to live instead in a small, cramped, turf-roofed building, like his flock.

Riches feed the body but devour the soul. Better to live humbly, like Christ.

During his lifetime the villagers had been generous: in addition to the weekly tithe, they had given ale and mutton enough to keep the family well fed and create the illusion of prosperity. But it had taken Rósa very little time after her pabbi’s death to see that their situation was desperate.

Soon, her mamma had developed a cough that bubbled like a sulphurous marsh with every breath. Rósa lay in the baðstofa at night, listening to the fluid filling Sigridúr’s chest. She remembered Pabbi’s lessons about the four humours: too much water in the lungs could leave a person drowning in their own body.

She watched her mother shrink and wheeze, curling into herself like an old woman: grey-skinned, with eye-sockets like caves. Rósa’s desires for herself withered and her life sharpened to a single purpose: help Mamma to survive.

On the first Sunday of July, a month after Magnús’s death, Rósa had gone to church with the intention of praying for guidance. She and Mamma had eaten the last of their skyr that morning and were too proud to beg.

On the way to the church, she had passed Margrét, who was using a stick to scratch lines in the ground outside her croft. She turned at Rósa’s footsteps, then quickly scuffed out the lines with her shoe. ‘Just a Bible verse.’ She grimaced, her chin jutting aggressively, and tucked her grey hair into the threadbare cap where it had come loose.

‘Which one?’ Rósa couldn’t help asking. It was no secret that Margrét couldn’t read or write a word and was envious of Rósa’s knowledge. She had been scratching out a rune, no doubt.

‘Ten Commandments,’ Margrét snapped. ‘In pictures. Enough of your smirking, Rósa. I saw that young man of yours.’

‘Young man of mine?’ Rósa thought she could feel heat rising to her cheeks.

‘Don’t play the fool with me. He’s off digging turf on a Sunday instead of going to church. You’ll have to keep Páll in line if you want him to make a good husband.’

‘Then you must look for the girl he means to marry and tell her so. Perhaps you will find her when you go to church, Margrét, instead of making patterns outside your croft.’

Rósa didn’t wait for her to respond, but quickly walked on. She scanned the fields for Páll, but couldn’t see him. Neither was his one of the dozens of faces that turned to hers, then away, whispering, when she walked into the church.

The building was hot with bodies as the villagers crowded to welcome the newly appointed bishop, Olaf Gunnarsson. They fidgeted as he spoke.

Suddenly, Bishop Olaf was speaking Rósa’s name, the daughter of the great Bishop Magnús. He beckoned her up to the wooden pulpit as everyone stared; she could imagine them judging how thin she had grown. As soon as he let her go, she darted back to her bench, taking a deep breath only once the eyes of a hundred villagers were no longer upon her.

But as she looked up once more, she had the feeling that someone was still watching. She glanced to her left and there he was: a stranger in the village where she knew everybody’s name.

He was a huge man: the muscles in his arms stretched the material of his tunic. He was dark-skinned, as if he spent much of his time outside. His heavy beard hid too much of his mouth for her to read his expression.

She dropped her gaze. When she looked up again, he was still staring.

After the service, the stranger left quickly. Rósa didn’t have to ask to find out who he was because everyone was full of talk: Jón Eiríksson was a rich fisherman, farmer and merchant from Stykkishólmur. A self-made, powerful man. Since the death of the chieftain in the area, he also acted as goði, dealing with many legal and church matters from his own croft – there was no church building in his tiny settlement. He had been travelling south to buy a new cow and had stopped at Rósa’s village. The Skálholt church buzzed with talk.

Old Snorri Skúmsson’s white beard quivered with excitement. He leaned in close to Rósa – she could see the red veins that spidered over his nose. ‘He’s given out that he is here to welcome Bishop Olaf and pay his respects, but of course he’s not fooling anyone.’ Snorri sniggered. ‘His wife died and now he’s after a new one – everyone has been talking of it. We all saw him staring at you, Rósa. And you won’t be staying in the church now, with your pabbi gone – a good thing. Women reading – pah!’

Rósa recoiled. Was bad breath a sign of rot on the inside? But she forced a smile. ‘Your daughters are much older than I am. Perhaps you should seize this chance for one of them.’

Snorri gaped as Rósa curtsied, then ran outside and down the hill before he could reply. Mamma would be proud of her. Pabbi 

Rósa

Skálholt, August 1686

Rósa sits in the baðstofa of the croft that newly belongs to her and her mamma. A biting plume of wind shafts through the gaps between the turf wall and the tiny window, which is made of pale sheepskin, shorn of wool and stretched, until it is thinner and more translucent than the expensive paper imported from Denmark.

She shivers as the wind plucks at her tunic, but still she huddles closer to the opening to catch the fading light, tugging her shawl about her shoulders.

She dips the quill into the precious pot of ink.

My dear Jón Eiríksson,

I write to beg your mercy and understanding, my husband. Your apprentice, Pétur, arrived today, with your kind gift of three woollen dresses and bade me to join you in Stykkishólmur. I wish to be a dutiful wife in this, our new marriage, but I regret I cannot join you

Rósa stops, bites her lip and pulls the shawl more closely around her. Then she scores out cannot and writes will not. Her hand wobbles and she presses down so hard that the quill snaps, spattering ink over her words.

Her eyes sting. She growls, balls up the paper and hurls it to the floor.

‘Pick that up, girl,’ her mother wheezes, from the opposite bed. ‘Are we richer than Niord to waste good paper and ink?’ A rattling cough bubbles from her chest.

‘Sorry, Mamma.’ Rósa smiles, teeth gritted, then picks up the paper, smoothing it over her knee. ‘I cannot think . . .’ She feels her mouth crumpling, and bites the inside of her cheek.

Her mother smiles. ‘You are nervous, of course. Your husband will know that, no matter what you write. I remember when I wed your father . . .’

Rósa nods mutely, a sudden stone in her throat.

Sigridúr’s smile fades. She pats the bed next to her. ‘This is not like you. Sit. Good. Now, what troubles you?’

Rósa opens her mouth to answer, but can find no words for the crushing panic she feels at the thought of leaving her village to live with this stranger, whom she must suddenly call ‘husband’. When she thinks of him, she cannot picture his face, but only his hands: strong and sun-darkened. She imagines them pulling on oars, or wringing a chicken’s neck.

Suddenly Sigridúr clasps Rósa’s hands. ‘No more of that!’ For a moment, Rósa wonders how her thoughts were so plain to see. Then she looks down at her hands and realizes that, without thinking, she had begun to trace the vegvísir on her hand.

‘No runes!’ Sigridúr hisses.

Rósa nods and clenches her hands into fists. ‘I know.’

‘You cannot know. You must remember. Your husband is not like your pabbi was. He will not blink and pretend not to see what is under his nose. You must quote nothing but Bible verses and hymns to him. No runes. No Sagas. You understand?’

‘I am not a fool, Mamma,’ Rósa whispers.

Sigridúr’s expression softens and she strokes Rósa’s cheek. ‘Do not fret. If his prayers become tiresome, you must wait until he’s asleep, then beat him over the head with his Bible and lock him outside in the snow.’

Despite herself, Rósa smiles.

Sigridúr snorts and adds, ‘For the huldufólk to feast upon.’

Rósa rolls her eyes. ‘Mamma, please. Not even in jest – you’ve said so.’

‘Don’t fuss,’ Sigridúr says. ‘There is no one to overhear us.’ She pauses and her eyes flash. ‘Besides, the huldufólk prefer to eat children.’

‘Mamma!’

Sigridúr holds up her hands. ‘I must laugh while I can, my love. Marriage.’ Her mouth twists. ‘And to a man from so far away.’

Rósa feels her panic rising again and crushes it. ‘Remember, Mamma, the new turf on the roof, the big stove. Peat to burn – it lights much better than manure. And Jón will trade with Copenhagen for wood for you when the ships arrive. Imagine wood to line the walls, Mamma. Furs instead of homespun. You will be warm all winter. In time, you will fight off this infection.’

‘Your pabbi taught you to argue, that is certain. And to be a fisherman’s wife. Such a waste.’

‘He is not simply a fisherman.’

‘Yes, goði is not a title to snivel at. I know he grows barley on his home farm and does good trade with the Danes. I heard his speech, just as you did. A pretty picture he painted. But people say –’

‘Rumours, Mamma, and we will pay them no mind.’

‘They say Jón’s first wife –’

‘Overblown stories.’ Rósa’s voice sounds harsh, even to her own ears, but it distracts her from the prickling sensation in her hands and feet whenever she imagines being alone with this man. Three nights ago, she had dreamed that her new husband was lying on top of her, but he had the head and shoulders of an Arctic bear. He leaned forward to kiss her, but opened his jaws wide and roared. The meaty stench of his breath had made her gag and she had woken retching. She worries that the dream is an omen and she has tried time and again to write to Jón, delaying the time when she must travel to Stykkishólmur. But then, when she listens to her mother’s wheezing, she knows her decision is right. Sometimes, when she closes her eyes, she sees not Jón’s face but another man’s – a face more familiar than her own. A hand reaching out to brush the hair back from her forehead. But she quashes that thought too, and says, ‘We won’t talk of Jón’s first wife. It’s jealous gossip, aimed at frightening me. You said so yourself.’

Sigridúr nods slowly, looking down at her hands, which are blue-laced with cold. ‘But, still, Stykkishólmur is four days’ hard ride away. The land is cruel, especially after the hard winter we had last year . . . They say there are ice floes in the sea that have not melted for twelve months. And why does he want you?’

‘Such a compliment, Mamma. You must stop, or my head will grow too big for the croft.’

‘Hush!’ Sigridúr grins. ‘I think the world of you, but . . . Why not a girl from his own village?’

Rósa has worried at the same question herself, but now she reaches across and clasps her mother’s cold fingers. ‘I must be irresistible.’

Sigridúr smiles sadly. ‘Your pabbi would have known what to do.’

‘I miss him too.’ Rósa embraces her, closing her eyes and inhaling the sour smell of wool and sweat that reminds her of her childhood.

Rósa’s father, Magnús, the Bishop of Skálholt, had died nearly two months earlier. It had started with stomach pains, but within a month his belly had swollen as if he were heavy with child.

The village had whispered, of course, that it was the work of some witch with a grudge, peeved perhaps that he had banned all runes and the casting of spells, where previous bishops had openly read from the Sagas and the Bible alike. Magnús had treated the rumours with contempt: he had denounced them from the pulpit and had threatened to have the gossips thrown from the church. It smothered the hissed rumours, but didn’t stop the illness raging through his body. He was dead before the Solstice, leaving little in the way of money or goods for his wife and daughter. Magnús had sold the lavish croft with its glass windows and wood-lined walls, giving the money to the upkeep of the church. He had chosen to live instead in a small, cramped, turf-roofed building, like his flock.

Riches feed the body but devour the soul. Better to live humbly, like Christ.

During his lifetime the villagers had been generous: in addition to the weekly tithe, they had given ale and mutton enough to keep the family well fed and create the illusion of prosperity. But it had taken Rósa very little time after her pabbi’s death to see that their situation was desperate.

Soon, her mamma had developed a cough that bubbled like a sulphurous marsh with every breath. Rósa lay in the baðstofa at night, listening to the fluid filling Sigridúr’s chest. She remembered Pabbi’s lessons about the four humours: too much water in the lungs could leave a person drowning in their own body.

She watched her mother shrink and wheeze, curling into herself like an old woman: grey-skinned, with eye-sockets like caves. Rósa’s desires for herself withered and her life sharpened to a single purpose: help Mamma to survive.

On the first Sunday of July, a month after Magnús’s death, Rósa had gone to church with the intention of praying for guidance. She and Mamma had eaten the last of their skyr that morning and were too proud to beg.

On the way to the church, she had passed Margrét, who was using a stick to scratch lines in the ground outside her croft. She turned at Rósa’s footsteps, then quickly scuffed out the lines with her shoe. ‘Just a Bible verse.’ She grimaced, her chin jutting aggressively, and tucked her grey hair into the threadbare cap where it had come loose.

‘Which one?’ Rósa couldn’t help asking. It was no secret that Margrét couldn’t read or write a word and was envious of Rósa’s knowledge. She had been scratching out a rune, no doubt.

‘Ten Commandments,’ Margrét snapped. ‘In pictures. Enough of your smirking, Rósa. I saw that young man of yours.’

‘Young man of mine?’ Rósa thought she could feel heat rising to her cheeks.

‘Don’t play the fool with me. He’s off digging turf on a Sunday instead of going to church. You’ll have to keep Páll in line if you want him to make a good husband.’

‘Then you must look for the girl he means to marry and tell her so. Perhaps you will find her when you go to church, Margrét, instead of making patterns outside your croft.’

Rósa didn’t wait for her to respond, but quickly walked on. She scanned the fields for Páll, but couldn’t see him. Neither was his one of the dozens of faces that turned to hers, then away, whispering, when she walked into the church.

The building was hot with bodies as the villagers crowded to welcome the newly appointed bishop, Olaf Gunnarsson. They fidgeted as he spoke.

Suddenly, Bishop Olaf was speaking Rósa’s name, the daughter of the great Bishop Magnús. He beckoned her up to the wooden pulpit as everyone stared; she could imagine them judging how thin she had grown. As soon as he let her go, she darted back to her bench, taking a deep breath only once the eyes of a hundred villagers were no longer upon her.

But as she looked up once more, she had the feeling that someone was still watching. She glanced to her left and there he was: a stranger in the village where she knew everybody’s name.

He was a huge man: the muscles in his arms stretched the material of his tunic. He was dark-skinned, as if he spent much of his time outside. His heavy beard hid too much of his mouth for her to read his expression.

She dropped her gaze. When she looked up again, he was still staring.

After the service, the stranger left quickly. Rósa didn’t have to ask to find out who he was because everyone was full of talk: Jón Eiríksson was a rich fisherman, farmer and merchant from Stykkishólmur. A self-made, powerful man. Since the death of the chieftain in the area, he also acted as goði, dealing with many legal and church matters from his own croft – there was no church building in his tiny settlement. He had been travelling south to buy a new cow and had stopped at Rósa’s village. The Skálholt church buzzed with talk.

Old Snorri Skúmsson’s white beard quivered with excitement. He leaned in close to Rósa – she could see the red veins that spidered over his nose. ‘He’s given out that he is here to welcome Bishop Olaf and pay his respects, but of course he’s not fooling anyone.’ Snorri sniggered. ‘His wife died and now he’s after a new one – everyone has been talking of it. We all saw him staring at you, Rósa. And you won’t be staying in the church now, with your pabbi gone – a good thing. Women reading – pah!’

Rósa recoiled. Was bad breath a sign of rot on the inside? But she forced a smile. ‘Your daughters are much older than I am. Perhaps you should seize this chance for one of them.’

Snorri gaped as Rósa curtsied, then ran outside and down the hill before he could reply. Mamma would be proud of her. Pabbi would have been less so.

Again, she scanned the hills and fields for the familiar set of Páll’s shoulders, but he was nowhere to be seen. The rest of the villagers filed back to their crofts, some calling to Rósa as they passed, then turning back to their neighbours to mutter. Rósa clenched her jaw and forced out a greeting. It had been like this ever since Pabbi had died: the whispering and speculation. Sometimes Rósa felt as if she were standing naked in a blizzard, every soul in the village pointing as she shivered.

Then Hedí Loftursdóttír came and pressed a clump of moss into Rósa’s hands. Her face was pale and her light blue eyes darted left and right. ‘For your mamma. It will help her cough.’

Rósa nodded and smiled. Perhaps some people still felt compassion for her. But before she could draw a breath to thank Hedí, the girl had run away, head down, as if Rósa carried some terrible disease.

The sky was a wide blue eye above her. When it paled, near midnight, the sun would skim below the edge of the horizon, then resurface in a blink, shedding a milky half-light.

In the distance squatted the upturned tabletop of Hekla. It spat smoke and ash into the sky, sometimes spewing out black rocks and lava to entomb the land and people for miles around. Hekla was known to be the open door into Hell. All in Iceland 

feared it, and many would rather die than live within sight of it. But Rósa could not imagine living anywhere else.

It would mean leaving her mamma. And Páll.

Rósa flexed her fingers, squeezing the soil beneath, and smelling the black dead-ash promise the mountains made anew each day: we will remain.

Something comforting in that relentless obstinacy. No more thoughts of ghosts and spirits. No more thoughts of leaving.

Two days after the church service, there had been a knock on the croft door. Rósa had known who it would be – no one ever knocked in Skálholt.

She hadn’t mentioned to her mamma anything about the service, or about the broad-shouldered stranger, and when she heard the knocking, Rósa froze.

Sigridúr stirred and coughed, then gave the door a dark look, as if the wood were to blame for waking her. ‘God’s teeth!’ she mumbled. ‘Open the door, Rósa, would you?’

Rósa pretended to be absorbed in her knitting. Another knock. She remained motionless, and Mamma, still coughing, gestured at the door.

Rósa sighed, set down her work and opened the door. In the sudden glare of light, all she could make out was a tall, bearded 

igure.

‘Komdu sælar og blessaðar.’ Jón’s voice was deep.

She shielded her eyes from the light. ‘Komdu sæl og blessaður.’

From her bed, Sigridúr had snapped, ‘If it’s traders, shut the door. We’ve sold both cows and all the sheep we can spare. I’ve nothing else I want to be rid of.’

‘Mamma, it is a visitor,’ Rósa hissed. ‘A man.’ Then she turned to the broad figure in the doorway and smiled. ‘Forgive us. Mamma is wary of strangers, since Pabbi’s passing. But you are Jón Eiríksson, goði of Stykkishólmur.’

He gave an awkward duck of his head that she supposed was a bow. ‘Indeed. May I come in?’ The flash of white teeth in his black beard softened his face.

She returned his smile, despite the hammering of her heart.

Sigridúr pursed her lips and struggled to sit up. ‘You must take us as you find us. My husband died some months ago and –’

‘I am sorry.’

Sigridúr gave a curt nod. ‘Your wife died too, folk say.’

He sighed. ‘Two months past.’

‘So soon? And I heard you buried her in the middle of the night, then went out fishing the next day. As if your wife cost you no more grief than a dog.’

Rósa gasped. ‘Mamma!’

‘It is the truth. Look at his face.’

Jón clasped his hands together, as if in prayer. ‘I buried her alone, it is true. I didn’t . . .’ He sighed, scratched his beard. His face was weather-beaten, his mouth had deep grooves at the corners, and there was darkness in his eyes, like a slammed door.

‘My wife was suddenly unwell. It was . . . distressing. She was from near Thingvellir and had few friends in my settlement.’

Rósa held up her hand. ‘I apologize. Mamma grieves still and . . . We feel Pabbi’s loss keenly every day.’ She gestured at the sagging turf roof and the broken beams, which would need imported wood to repair them. He was too polite to look directly at these signs of their poverty, but he nodded in sympathy.

‘But you should not feel you must explain,’ Rósa continued. ‘All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.’

‘Indeed.’ His expression brightened and his voice was warm.

Sigridúr snorted. When Magnús was alive, she had been more reserved, but since his death she had cared little for the opinions of others.

But Jón seemed not to take offence: he puffed out his cheeks, then exhaled. ‘Like any man, I have enemies, keen to spread rumours. But, believe me, I mourned my wife. It pained me that I could not help her.’

Even Sigridúr had the manners to hold her tongue.

He turned to Rósa. ‘Bishop Magnús was a virtuous man. A good man with a good family.’

Sigridúr’s scowl returned. ‘As you see.’

The weight of silence rested between them.

Sigridúr didn’t take her eyes from Jón’s face. ‘Rósa,’ she snapped, ‘fetch food and drink for our guest.’

Rósa went through the cowhide curtain to the pantry, where she could still hear them. The shrillness in Sigridúr’s voice made her flinch.

‘You would be best to visit Margrét – she has sheep and daughters both. I’m sure she’d trade either for a few ells of homespun, or their weight in dried fish.’

Rósa scooped some skyr onto a plate, poured two cups of ale and hurried back to the baðstofa.

Sigridúr’s lips were pursed. ‘I am weary.’ She indicated the door. ‘Thank you for your visit. Bless.’

Jón bowed. ‘Bless. I’m sorry to have troubled you.’ He turned to go.

Rósa glared at Sigridúr. ‘Won’t you stay? We have skyr and ale –’

‘Thank you, no. Bless.’ He ducked through the little doorway and was gone

As soon as he left, Rósa rounded on her mother. ‘What possessed you to be so rude?’

‘You are not a cow that he can offer a trade for you.’ Sigridúr narrowed her eyes. ‘You may wilfully ignore what others say, Rósa, but a woman listens to wisdom if she wants to live to old age. They say he cut the hand off a merchant who cheated him. And that he had a man in his village burned for witchcraft. And his wife –’

‘His wife died of a fever, Mamma. The rest is gossip.’

‘Only a child could be blind to the darkness in that man.’ Sigridúr sank back onto her bed, coughing. ‘It’s all over his face. His wife no sooner dies than he’s on the hunt for a new one.’

Rósa’s mind hissed the same thought, but she knelt, taking Mamma’s hands. ‘It would be a good match.’

‘Nonsense. Your brain will rot. Think of your writing. Besides,’ Sigridúr grinned, ‘you are too wilful to be a wife.’

‘I will try to be . . . obedient. And marriage will not stop me reading or writing.’ Rósa’s voice faltered, as she thought of the scraps of parchment she had hidden under her mattress, which contained scribbled thoughts about a new Saga: a little like Laxdaela Saga, except this time the heroine would not kill or die for love. Surely her husband would not grudge her the chance to write occasionally. Even Magnús, who had despised anything associated with the old ways, had scoffed at the belief that writing stories or poems could be a form of witchcraft. He had also believed that, as he lacked a son, his daughter should be taught to read and write, despite the mutterings of the villagers when they saw Rósa curled up with a quill and parchment.

Sigridúr stroked Rósa’s hair. ‘Bless your innocence. A man like that would set fire to your feet if you wrote a single word. Besides, keeping a croft, you would have no time to do anything other than sleep and eat. And I would never see you. No. I’ll hear no more of it. You’ll stay here.’

‘Jón is wealthy – ’

‘So was Odd of the Bandamanna Saga,’ Sigridúr muttered, ‘and he carried misfortune with him too.’

Sigridúr persuaded Rósa that it could not happen: he was too old, too odd, his home too distant. Besides, the man went through wives like cloaks.

But the late summer threw down early snow, which breathed cold over the village. Their evenings were spent huddled around the fire, burning precious tallow candles for extra warmth, stitching clothes that were more patch than cloth. Hunger shifted in their bellies and clawed at their guts. It would be yet another hard winter.

When Sigridúr’s cough worsened, and every breath sounded as if a swamp were squatting in her chest, Rósa began to have nightmares that Mamma had choked to death during the night, or starved, or died from the cold. More omens, perhaps.

She found a large, flat stone and used a stick with charcoal from the fire to draw out the protective vegvísir symbol, which she placed under her mamma’s straw mattress. The rune was only truly effective if drawn in blood on the forehead but, mindful of whispers, she hid the stone and hoped it might offer some net of protection around Sigridúr.

Even as she did it, Rósa knew that the real answer lay within her grasp: food and warmth would bring her mother back to full health.

But every time Rósa thought of Jón’s face, she shivered.

In the end, it was Páll’s pabbi, Bjartur, who forced the decision.

Páll had been Rósa’s closest confidant from childhood – his pabbi was Mamma’s cousin. Her earliest memories were of wrestling with Páll in the long grasses, or of him pelting her with snowballs. When they were older, they had lain on their bellies on the hillside, side by side in the sunlight. His eyes and thoughts, his very smell were as familiar to her as her own skin.

When they were sixteen summers, Rósa took to seeing Páll more often: she left the croft early and returned late. The two of them often walked over the hill, out of sight of the spying eyes of the village.

Magnús had become increasingly severe about Rósa spending time with Páll. ‘It isn’t fitting. You’re no longer children.’

‘You are seeing harm where there is none,’ insisted Rósa, when Magnús wouldn’t relent.

‘And you are ruining your chances of a good match,’ bellowed Magnús. ‘Ignorant girl! You know how people talk.’

‘Let them! Anyone would be a fool to think there is harm in my friendship with Páll. A poison-minded fool!’ Rósa spat the last word, and Magnús reeled, then turned and walked to the door.

He stopped there and said, very low, his back still to her, ‘Many fathers would have beaten their daughters for less. Remember that, next time you call me a fool.’

Rósa had spent the night alternately sobbing and raging, and nothing Sigridúr could say calmed her.

The next morning, she had woken early and crept out to see Páll as usual. Despite her fury with Magnús, she found herself saying to him, ‘I must see less of you in the coming months.’

‘Oh?’

‘My pabbi says . . .’ She uprooted a grass stalk. ‘He says I must spend more time alone.’

‘Doing what?’ Páll smudged the ink on the parchment and cursed under his breath. Rósa poked him with a toe.

‘He says . . .’ Rósa hid her face in her hands. ‘He says I must prepare to marry.’

‘Marry?’ Páll sat up, smiling quizzically, as if it were some joke. ‘Surely old Snorri Skúmsson is too much sought-after for you to have any hope there.’

Rósa laughed, but the sound emerged as a sob.

Páll’s smile faded. ‘So I am to see less of you because you are to marry?’

Rósa nodded. ‘Someone from . . . I don’t know where. Pabbi is talking of . . . He says I must make a good match. Someone . . . powerful.’

Páll blinked and Rósa was suddenly dry-mouthed.

Finally, Páll said, ‘Well, no doubt you will be like Gudrun from Laxdaela Saga, and men will be killing each other for your love.’ He used the quill to flick ink across her face.

Rósa wiped it away, then used her finger to smear it across his cheek. ‘Don’t waste ink, you scoundrel!’

He grinned. ‘No waste when it makes you laugh.’

They said no more about marriage and, after some time, she fell asleep with her arm across her face. She was wakened by a tickling sensation on her stomach. She reached down to brush away whatever insect was bothering her, and discovered that her stomach was bare – her dress had ridden up while she was asleep – and her skin was covered with letters where Páll had written on her.

She sat up. ‘What are you doing?’ she snapped. ‘How will I wash these off?’

‘I . . . I don’t know.’ Páll was red-faced and wouldn’t meet her eye. ‘Your dress moved and I – I thought you would laugh, and then I . . . You’re just – And I couldn’t –’ He turned away.

She leaned towards him, smiling. ‘You’re a fool. Soak your tunic in the stream and I can wash the ink off. There’s your payment for drawing on me: you will be cold and wet.’

She had expected him to laugh, but he got up without looking at her and then returned a short while later, his tunic soaked.

She squinted up at him. ‘Well? I cannot rip it from your back.’

He swallowed, then slowly lifted his arms and peeled it off.

She stared. When she had last seen his body – when they had last swum together, the summer before – his arms and stomach and chest had been very much like hers: the flat planes of a child. 

Now his chest had broadened, while the digging and hefting of peat had made hard slabs of muscle under his skin.

When Páll held out the wet tunic to her, she found she couldn’t move to take it.

‘Here,’ Páll murmured.

Rósa shook her head: the letters could stay and he should put on his tunic. But he must have misunderstood her, because he closed his eyes and inhaled, then knelt next to her and began wiping her skin with the tunic.

Rósa jumped and gasped at the cold.

‘Am I hurting you?’ Páll asked. ‘Should I stop?’ He looked at her face. His blue eyes were fathomless and deep, his expression utterly serious.

She shook her head. Then she lay back and closed her eyes.

He worked carefully, one letter at a time, the cloth marking an icy trail, which left the surface of her skin stippled with cold. After a long time, when the sun had dropped in the sky, and Rósa had begun to shiver, Páll stopped.

‘Finished,’ he whispered. Then, before she could move, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the skin of her navel. A single moment of heat. Rósa jumped and drew a sharp breath.

Páll recoiled, as if she had slapped him. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have –’

‘No! I didn’t mean –’

‘I’m sorry, Rósa. Please forgive me.’

And before she had found the words to tell him he didn’t need to apologize, that she wanted him to kiss her again, Páll had jumped to his feet and backed away from her, as if she might scald him.

For the rest of that summer, he had treated her like a stranger. He barely met her eye, and if she spoke to him, he grunted in response. When Sigridúr asked Rósa what had happened, Rósa didn’t know how to explain. All she knew was that, before, seeing Páll had been like looking at the familiar and beloved mountains that surrounded her home. Now, meeting his eyes was like staring into the open mouth of Hekla. When she looked at him, her whole body burned.

Magnús also noted the separation between them: he smiled and patted Rósa’s head, as if she were a child. ‘Sensible girl. That was never any sort of future.’ When Rósa raised her eyebrows, Magnús continued, ‘It wouldn’t do. A bishop’s daughter and a crofter’s son?’ He laughed. ‘I made you for better things. You’ll be a match for some fine goði somewhere. Hólar to the north, perhaps. Or even Copenhagen.’

‘I want to stay here.’ The words were out of Rósa’s mouth before she had even formed them in her head. ‘With you. I want

to help you in the church. Here, in Skálholt.’

Magnús had laughed again but, when Rósa had been adamant, he had finally agreed that she need not marry and could stay at home.

After Magnús’s death, Páll had come to the croft more often, shyly offering strips of dried mutton or sacks of manure for the fire. Over time, he smiled at her again, teased her. Slowly, it seemed their friendship was returning to what it had once been. Rósa finally felt able to look at Páll again, to meet his eyes without fear.

Once he brought to the croft a large block of peat which he must have obtained from a trader, although Rósa could not imagine how.

When she asked, he grinned. ‘Believe me, you would rather not know.’

‘You stole it? Then take it back.’ She shoved it towards him, but he held her wrists lightly with one hand and laughed. ‘Your mamma needs it.’

She stopped struggling, but left her wrists in his hand. ‘I won’t burn stolen peat.’

‘Your mamma will. Besides, I didn’t steal it.’ He took her hands and squeezed them, smiling. ‘A greedy rogue wanted ten 

loaves. I gave him the bread, and he gave me the peat, happily.’

‘But . . .’ She tried to ignore the jolt of his skin on hers. ‘Wherever did you find the flour for ten loaves?’

Páll chuckled. ‘I am generous. The crust of the bread will fill his belly, while the inside of each loaf is packed with good hay for his horses.’

‘Páll!’ She laughed. The trader had almost certainly deserved it and the peat would help to dry the air in the croft, which would soothe Mamma’s cough.

Páll continued to bring food and fuel. Slowly, Rósa began to hope that there might be a future for her with him. Perhaps she and Páll between them could keep Mamma alive through the winter, until the warmth of spring began to heal her.

At night, when the darkness surrounded her, Rósa lay on her bed and remembered again the feeling of Páll’s lips on her, his body close to hers. The heat of him.

But then, one day when Rósa was out on the hill, searching for bog bilberries, she heard the squelch of footsteps behind her.

Rósa did not turn. ‘There are very few, Páll. You should go back and help your pabbi – he will rage if he finds you have neglected your work.’

‘Indeed I will, and have done for weeks, though my son pays me no mind.’

Rósa gasped. ‘Bjartur! Bless.’ She bowed her head in greeting, hoping he would continue on his way, but he continued to stand, arms folded.

‘Your eyes will freeze if you stare so,’ Rósa said finally.

Bjartur scowled. ‘Mind your tongue, Rósa. And keep away from my boy.’

‘Good day to you, Bjartur. May the fair weather continue.’

His lip curled. ‘Always above yourself. You’re poisoning Páll –’

‘I will tell him –’

‘You will tell him to stay away from you.’

‘He is a man, and may command himself.’

‘Ah, but he does not. You command him. Tell him to stay away.’

‘You cannot order me –’

‘I can and I will. You’re unruly and selfish, and you’ve been allowed to tread your own path for too long. Must I spread word in the village that what they whisper is true, that you’ve bewitched my son? Shall I tell people that they should search your croft for runes and other writing?’

Rósa forced herself to return Bjartur’s baleful glare. ‘You would not . . .’ But her voice shook.

Bjartur stepped towards her. Though her guts were roiling, Rósa stood firm.

‘Have you looked at Páll, these past months?’ he growled. ‘Truly looked?’

Rósa blinked. ‘You are trying –’

‘The boy is exhausted. Thin as a broom-handle.’

‘I . . .’ Rósa dropped her gaze. ‘I had not noticed.’

‘No,’ Bjartur sneered. ‘You have been too full of your own thoughts and plans to see that my son starves himself to fill your belly.’

‘I – I will tell him to eat and rest.’

‘Tell him to keep away. You’re poison to him.’

Rósa prayed that Bjartur would leave, but he took a step closer. He smelt of bitter turf and sour sweat.

‘The goði from Stykkishólmur seeks a wife. Direct your simpering smiles at him.’

Rósa’s jaw dropped.

Bjartur turned his palms towards the sky. ‘A wealthy man, he’ll send coin and food for your kinfolk.’

Rósa ignored the trembling in her legs and drew herself up to her full height. ‘I am not a fool, Uncle. Your self-interest –’

‘You could save us all from grief, Rósa. It will be a hard winter, and many will die.’ He hawked up phlegm and spat upon the 

ground. ‘Think on it.’

He turned and trudged back down the hill. In the stoop of his shoulders and his limp, Rósa saw the ghost of what Páll might become. If he survived.

Jón stayed for nearly three weeks, trading in the surrounding area, watching. Watching everything. He refused the offers from various villagers, usually those with daughters of marriageable age, to share their roof as shelter. Instead, he made a little camp on the hillside, in spite of the cold nights.

Rósa passed him daily on her way to collect water from the river. She didn’t smile and wave a giggling greeting, like the other girls, but walked with her head down. The feel of his eyes on her made her skin itch.

Again and again she went over Bjartur’s words of warning on the hillside. Perhaps he had been right. Perhaps her marriage to this rich man would be better for everyone. But no! Why should she marry a stranger? Why should she leave everything behind?

Then, one night, Sigridúr coughed so violently that her handkerchief came away freckled with red, and Rósa knew that the decision had made itself.

The next morning, when she saw Jón trudging over the fields to the church, she took a deep breath, called a greeting and hurried to walk alongside him.

Jón stopped and turned to her. ‘It will be another grim winter.’

She looked at the grass. His cold blue eyes made her insides coil. Not quite fear, but the feeling made her shift from one foot to another.

‘You must miss your pabbi. He was a good man.’

‘Thank you. He was. You knew him?’

‘I met him briefly at the Althing. His dedication to God and his care for his people were remarkable. Some bishops are greedy, but your pabbi was humble.’

She nodded.

‘And he would be proud of his daughter, I think.’

She forced herself not to reply. Women should be quiet and biddable.

He smiled and looked at her through narrowed eyes. ‘You are the epitome of humility, Rósa Magnúsdóttir.’

His gaze on her was like a touch. She found herself looking at his hands: the thick veins like ropes, the strong fingers. Her own hands trembled; she clutched the wool of her skirt.

‘Does it please you to be obedient?’ Jón murmured.

She measured her words. ‘Pride is a sin. God says, Do not be haughty.’

He stepped closer to her. ‘You are a fine woman.’ His body radiated heat and Rósa squirmed, but forced herself to smile and meet his gaze. As they walked, he described Stykkishólmur’s beauty until she could almost taste the salt and hear the puffins. She made admiring comments. Mamma had told her that men needed adoration.

His manner became easier. He smiled as he itemised his wealth: the linen sheets, the abundance of bread and meat, the large peat fires that warmed the kitchen and baðstofa all day. ‘I have every comfort that might be dreamed of,’ Jón said. ‘It is a good life, only solitary. The Bible tells us that women were created for men, bone of my bones, flesh of my flesh.’ His eyes were dark blue, impenetrable. He reached out and touched her cheek, then rested his hand upon her shoulder. It was hot and heavy.

Rósa’s breath was tight in her chest.

Jón took her hand between his own. Her fingers disappeared. He looked down at her wrist. ‘Such delicate bones. Like a bird.’ He opened out her fingers and intertwined them with his. ‘I would care for you, Rósa. You understand?’

She nodded, wide-eyed.

‘I would send food to your kinfolk in Skálholt.’ He squeezed her fingers. She gasped. He leaned in close to her ear. ‘Say yes to me,’ he whispered.

Rósa sighed and closed her eyes. The darkness inside her widened its jaws but she ignored it and fixed her face into a smile.

Sigridúr was furious, of course. ‘Your pabbi nurtured your mind, taught you to read. Will you waste that in a life of drudgery? Stoking fires and beating washing until your body breaks? Aim at the bishop, if you must marry.’

Rósa set her jaw. ‘This is for the best. You will have meat and –’

Sigridúr wheezed. ‘You will be far away across the country. And there’s a coldness in that man.’

‘Hush, Mamma. He is . . . good.’ The more Rósa said it, the more she believed.

‘Marry someone young. From Skálholt.’

Unbidden, Rósa thought of Páll’s smile, his kiss, which had lit up her whole body. A sudden memory of him, aged twelve, chasing after her. She had stumbled and he had fallen, laughing. When she turned to him, her own laughter seemed to come from 

his chest, his from her mouth. The memory ripped through her now, leaving her momentarily breathless.

And yet when a stone is caught in a rushing river, what choice does it have but to move?

When she next saw Jón, Rósa dropped her gaze and smiled meekly. They discussed scripture, and when he talked of the instruction for women to be silent in church, she nodded. She showered him with praise.

They sat next to the river and he put his hand on the back of her neck. He must have been able to feel the pounding of her heart – her whole body shook with it. When they stood, she peered down to look at her reflection, but beside his huge bulk she was less than a shadow, pale as a ghost. The surface of the water flickered, she disappeared, as if something had swallowed her.

It took a week of silent glares and growling stomachs, and a fire that kept dying overnight for want of peat to burn, before Sigridúr grudgingly agreed to the match. When she gave her blessing, Rósa’s eyes stung and her knees were shaking.

Jón visited to thank Sigridúr, and to say that he would travel west to Stykkishólmur after the wedding – the herring were plentiful in September, the hay must be harvested, and he should attend his people as goði, giving out food and counsel. ‘Forgive 

me, Rósa. My work and my people have claims on me.’ His mouth was a flat line and he squeezed Rósa’s fingers.

She swallowed. ‘Of course. You are a great man.’

Jón’s face relaxed. ‘I will send my apprentice to bring you home. He will care well for you on the journey.’ He stroked the palm of her hand.

She had to force herself not to flinch. This was her future: this mountain of a man, with the stern face and crushing hands. She nodded, unable to force any air past the jagged stone in her chest.

Rósa found Páll out working, shifting squares of turf on a roof. She tried to look at him through unfamiliar eyes and saw that, although he was lean and looked weary, his shoulders had broadened and his arms were hard with corded muscles.

She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly.

Páll turned when she called his name, but he didn’t climb down.

‘I hear you are to marry.’ His face was hard, his voice flat. ‘I wish you joy.’

‘I wanted to tell you –’

‘It is not my concern. Marry, if you like.’

He turned his back and slashed viciously at a piece of turf to square it. The sun glinted off his hair, accentuating the trace of red. She had tugged at the reddish hairs in his beard when it first grew, calling him a Vestmannyar, from Ireland. He had laughed, his breath warm against her hand.

‘Won’t you come down?’

‘I must finish this roof.’

‘I . . . Let me explain –’

‘Nothing to explain. Only . . .’ He clenched his jaw and, for a horrible moment, his voice shook. Then he coughed and said brusquely, ‘I thought you were set on church life. Here.’

‘I . . .’ She sighed. ‘I’m sorry, I –’

‘Don’t.’ When he looked at her, his eyes were the blue of a glacier in midwinter.

After a long silence, she turned and walked away.

Behind her, she could hear Páll grunting with exertion as he shifted the squares of turf.

The marriage ceremony took place on the first day of September, in the jaundiced pre-evening light. The dark church was crowded with most of the people of Skálholt, craning their necks and muttering.

Rósa shrank under their hard eyes and whispered words, and pushed her hands into the dress Jón had bought for her, white linen, shot through with strands of red silk. When sunlight caught the silk fibres, Rósa’s body was picked out in fire. In the right pocket, Mamma had placed a wooden cross that had once belonged to Magnús; in the left was a stone, which she had pressed into her hand that morning.

Rósa had frowned at the symbol on it. ‘Ginfaxi?’

‘Courage in battle.’ Sigridúr had grinned. ‘And victory when wrestling.’

Now, under the eyes of the villagers, Rósa clutched the cross and the stone, squeezing them until her hands ached. Her blood pounded in her ears, but she could still hear snatches of the gossip around her. She heard the word witchcraft and tried not to roll her eyes. The villagers were happy enough still to use runes, but envy meant it suited them to be suspicious of Rósa and Sigridúr. She could also hear them murmuring about Jón. She heard first wife, then tutting and stifled laughter.

A finger of sweat traced the length of Rósa’s spine.

If Jón heard any of the snatches of gossip, he didn’t show it. He stood next to his apprentice, Pétur, whom Rósa hadn’t seen before.

Pétur was slimmer and darker than Jón: his skin was like the bronzed buckskin of Pabbi’s empty coin purse, and there was a coiled stillness about his body, which made Rósa think of the pictures of wolves she had seen in books about those lands to the east. His eyes were brown, but in the few beams of orange light from the tiny, high windows – expensive glass, imported from Denmark – they glowed almost amber. They locked on her, and Rósa’s breath caught. Then the corners of his mouth tugged upwards and his face softened.

Sigridúr nudged her daughter. ‘They say he’s one of the huldufólk.’

‘And they say a woman writing is witchcraft,’ Rósa muttered.

‘He was found on the hills as a child. As though he’d grown from the earth. He looks it too, with that dark hair, those eyes.’

Rósa risked a quick smile. ‘One of the huldufólk would have made off with the children by now.’

But it was true: Pétur looked darker and harder than any Icelander Rósa had seen, as though he was somehow formed from the volcanic soil itself.

Sigridúr gave a wheeze. ‘Huldufólk or not, he’s a pretty fellow. Now that would be a marriage choice.’

‘You are past marrying age, Mamma.’

Sigridúr snorted.

Rósa kept her eyes fixed on Jón’s face. He smiled at her, grey eyes brightening from slate to sky. She felt the iron fist loosen around her chest.

When she had entered the church, Rósa had searched for Páll’s reddish-blond hair. She had allowed herself to imagine he might grin at her; even if he didn’t, even if he scowled, just seeing him might give her strength. When she realized that he hadn’t come, it was like a physical blow. She had lost him. Truly lost him. She pressed her hands to her stomach and forced herself to breathe through the pain.

She straightened her back, pressed her mouth into a fixed rictus. Around her neck was a leather cord, on which dangled a tiny glass figurine that Jón had offered to her that morning as a wedding gift. It was cold, like frozen water, and shaped into the perfect form of a woman: tiny hands clasped in introspection, gaze meekly lowered. Rósa had gasped: glass was costly and rare, and she had never before possessed anything that had no purpose other than to look beautiful.

‘I had it from a Danish trader,’ he said. ‘Beautiful. Fragile. Humble.’ He touched her cheek. His hand was burning on her skin. ‘It made me think of you.’

A woman made of glass and stillness: perfect but easily shattered.

Rósa squeezed the figurine until her hand ached. Later, she would find that the glass had left a purple imprint of itself on her palm.

The bishop’s voice was deadened by the dark, fuggy interior of the church, the air heavy with the warmth of too many breathing bodies.

After the words of blessing had been spoken, Jón looked at her and reached out, as if to stroke her cheek again, but let his hand drop to his side.

She exhaled slowly – she hadn’t realized she had been holding her breath.

He travelled back to Stykkishólmur that afternoon, no wedding feast, not even a night in Rósa’s bed – though she was thankful she didn’t have to endure Mamma snoring in the bed opposite hers while she lay with her husband for the first time.

It would be Pétur who returned in three weeks to take her to her new life.

Praise:

“Gripped me in a cold fist. Beautiful.” —Sara Collins, author of The Confessions of Frannie Langton

“An Icelandic Jane Eyre.” —Sunday Times, London

“Gripped me in a cold fist. Beautiful.”- Sara Collins, author of The Confessions of Frannie Langton

“A fantastic, atmospheric debut.”- Times, London

“A perfect, gripping winter read. I loved it.”- Sophie Mackintosh, author of The Water Cure
“This evocative debut is compelling with a brilliant twist.”- Daily Express, UK—four out of five stars

“Memorable and compelling. A novel about what haunts us—and what should.”- Sarah Moss, author of Ghost Wall

“Lea crafts deeply intriguing characters while bringing to life their harsh landscape. Full of emotion, mystery, and suspense, this unique love story will keep readers guessing until the very end.”- Booklist

“A young woman caught in a loveless marriage faces dangers real and imagined in 17th-century Iceland…. A haunting novel delivers chills… amplifying the impact of both an alluring but hostile landscape and a closed society on a vulnerable young woman.”- Kirkus

“Crackles with tension. Moving and atmospheric, I couldn’t put it down.”- Laura Purcell, author of The Silent Companions and The Corset

“The eerie opening brilliantly sets the scene for a suspenseful read. A tremor cracks open an ice floe and an arm appears, plunging the reader into a harsh landscape and a world of suspicions and secrets.”- Sunday Express, UK

“Mystery and potential danger linger throughout as the story builds to the reveal…. Lovely prose and the lulling feel of escape into another time… will satisfy readers who wish to be submerged in the ways of an old world.”- Publishers Weekly

“A chilling tale.”- Good Housekeeping, UK

“A gothic novel for a cold climate. Mesmerizing.”- Elly Griffiths, author of The Stranger Diaries

“Intensely written and atmospheric, with an unusual setting, this is a stark evocation of a community where fear of the outsider is rife and unsettling.”- Daily Mail, UK

“An enthralling tale of the Icelandic witch trials.”- Stacey Halls, author of The Familiars
“[A] compelling, atmospheric novel”- Sunday Times, UK

“Suspenseful, gripping and beautifully drawn.”- Cecilia Ekbäck, author of Wolf Winter
“Utterly unputdownable. Rich in superstition and mystery, it pulled me in. An incredible novel.”- Ali Land, author of Good Me Bad Me

“Tremendous. Atmospheric and beautifully wrought, The Glass Woman is both chilling and beguiling.”- Elizabeth Fremantle, author of Sisters of Treason

“Haunting, evocative and utterly compelling. The Glass Woman transports the reader to a time and place steeped in mystery, where nothing is ever quite as it seems. Stunning.”- Tracy Borman, author of The King’s Witch

“Like a ghost story told around a winter fire, The Glass Womanis taut, haunting, and broodingly tense. Playing out against the harsh backdrop of the Icelandic winter, it kept me hooked all the way to the end.”- Tim Leach, author of Smile of the Wolf

About the Author:

Caroline Lea was born and raised in Jersey in the United Kingdom. The Glass Woman is her second novel. She lives in Warwick, England.