The Storm Sister (The Seven Sisters #2) (40 page)

‘As a matter of fact, I might go to Norway and investigate what Pa Salt’s coordinates indicate is my original place of birth.’

I’m sure I looked far more surprised at what I’d just said than Star did, as the thought entered my brain for the first time and began to take hold.

‘Good,’ Star said. ‘I think you should.’

‘Do you?’

‘Why not? Pa’s clues might change your life. They changed Maia’s. And’ – Star paused – ‘perhaps mine too.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

Another silence took hold and I knew it wasn’t worth pursuing Star for further details of her revelation. ‘Now, I really think I should be going. Thank you so much for lunch.’
I stood up, suddenly feeling weary and needing to return to my sanctuary. ‘Is it easy to get a taxi from here?’ I said as she accompanied me to the front door.

‘Yes, turn left and you’re on the main road. Goodbye, Ally,’ she said as she reached to kiss me on both cheeks. ‘Let me know if you go to Norway.’

Back at Celia’s silent house, I went up to my bedroom and opened the case that contained my flute. I stared at it intently, as if it could answer all the questions
burning in my mind. The most pressing being where I would go from here. I knew I could almost certainly go and bury myself on ‘Somewhere’. One telephone call to Peter and his beautiful
house on Anafi would be mine for as long as I needed it. I could spend the next year concentrating on renovating Theo’s precious goat barn – thoughts of
Mamma Mia
, the Abba
musical, sprang to mind, and I chuckled and shook my head. However appealing the cocoon of ‘Somewhere’ appeared, I knew it would not move me forward. It would simply let me live in the
world of Theo and I, which had been but wasn’t any more.

Equally, would Atlantis be good for me? Was there anything left for me there now? But anything I might subsequently discover in Norway was firmly in my past too and I was someone who looked to
the future. Yet perhaps with the ‘now’ being on hold, I had to reverse in order to move forward. I decided that my choice was stark: return to Atlantis or fly to Norway. Perhaps a few
days of private contemplation in a new country – away from everything and everybody – would be a good thing. No one there would know my story and investigating the past would at least
give me something to focus on. Even if it came to nothing.

I began to look up flights to Oslo, finding one that left that evening and had availability. I realised I’d have to leave almost immediately to get to Heathrow on time. I stared into space
trying to make a decision.

‘Come on, Ally.’ I spoke to myself harshly, as my finger hovered over the button to confirm the seat. ‘What have you got to lose?’

Nothing
.

And besides, I was ready to know.

As the plane soared northward that late August evening, I skimmed through the information I had about the Ibsen Museum and the National Theatre in Oslo. Tomorrow morning, I
decided, I’d visit both and see if anyone there could shed further light on the information I’d gleaned from Jens Halvorsen’s book.

As I left the plane at Oslo airport, I felt an unexpected lightness in my step and something that almost resembled excitement. After clearing customs, I went straight to the information desk and
asked the young woman behind the counter if she could suggest a hotel that was located close to the Ibsen Museum. She mentioned the Grand Hotel, called them and told me they only had availability
at the more expensive end of the rooms.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll take what they have.’ The woman handed me a slip of paper that confirmed my booking, then ordered me a taxi and directed me outside to wait
for it.

As we drove into the centre of Oslo, the darkness made it difficult to get my bearings or gain much of an impression of the city. On arrival at the imposing lamp-lit stone entrance to the Grand
Hotel, I was immediately ushered inside and, with the formalities completed, shown to my room, which turned out to be named ‘The Ibsen Suite’.

‘Will this be sufficient for you, madam?’ the bellboy asked me in English as he handed me the key.

I looked around the beautiful sitting room, with a chandelier dangling elegantly from the ceiling and various photographs of Henrik Ibsen adorning the striped silk walls, and smiled at the
coincidence.

‘It’s wonderful, thank you very much.’

Once I’d tipped the bellboy and he’d left, I wandered around the suite in awe, thinking I could very easily move into it full-time. After taking a shower, I emerged from the bathroom
to the sound of church bells ushering in the arrival of midnight and felt glad I was here. Sliding between the crisp linen sheets, I fell into a deep sleep.

I rose early the next morning, and went out onto the tiny balcony to view the city in the light of a fresh new day. Below me was a tree-lined square, flanked by a mixture of gorgeous old stone
buildings and a few more modern ones. Casting my gaze upwards in the distance, I could see a pink castle perched on a hill.

I wandered back inside and realised I hadn’t eaten since yesterday lunchtime. I ordered breakfast to be delivered to the room, then sat on the bed in my robe, feeling like a princess in my
newfound palace. I studied the map the receptionist had given me last night and saw that the Ibsen Museum was only a short walk away.

After breakfast, I dressed and took the lift downstairs, armed with my map. As I crossed the square in front of the hotel, I suddenly smelt the all too familiar aroma of the sea, and I
remembered that Oslo was built on a fjord. I also noticed the large number of fair-skinned redheads who passed me. In Switzerland, I’d been teased during my schooldays about my pale
complexion, freckles and red-gold curls. At the time, it had hurt, as those things always did, and I remembered asking Ma if I could dye my hair.

‘No,
chérie
, your hair is your crowning glory. One day all those nasty girls will be jealous of it,’ had been her reply.

Well,
I thought as I continued to walk,
I certainly won’t stick out here
.

I came to a halt outside an impressive pale-brick building, the entrance to which was colonnaded with grey stone pillars.

‘NATIONALTHEATER’

I read the engraved inscription above the elegant façade and noticed that just below it, the names of Ibsen and two other men I’d never heard of were engraved on
stone plaques. Had this been the very building where
Peer Gynt
had been premiered, I wondered? To my disappointment, the theatre was shut at present, so I continued walking along the busy
wide street until I arrived at the front door of the Ibsen Museum. Stepping inside, I found myself in a small bookshop, and on the wall to my left was a display board printed with the dates of the
major events in Ibsen’s gilded career. My heart beat a little faster as I read the date: ‘
24th February 1876 – premiere of
Peer Gynt
at the Christiania
Theatre.
’

‘
God morgen! Kan eg hjelpe deg?
’ the girl behind the counter asked.

‘Do you speak English?’ was my first question.

‘Of course,’ she said with a smile. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Well, yes, or at least I hope so.’ Taking the photocopy of the book cover out of my bag, I placed it on the desk in front of her. ‘My name’s Ally D’Aplièse
and I’m doing some research on a composer called Jens Halvorsen and a singer called Anna Landvik. They were both in the original premiere of
Peer Gynt
at the Christiania Theatre. I
wondered if anyone here could tell me a little more about them.’

‘I can’t, as I’m just a student on the till,’ she confessed, ‘but I’ll go upstairs and see if Erik, the director of the museum, is in.’

‘Thank you.’

As she disappeared through a door at the back of the desk, I wandered around the shop and picked up an English translation of
Peer Gynt
. At the very least, I thought, I should read
it.

‘Yes, Erik’s here, and he will come down to see you shortly,’ confirmed the girl as she reappeared. I thanked her and paid for the book.

A few minutes later, an elegant white-haired man appeared.

‘Hello, Miss D’Aplièse. I’m Erik Edvardsen,’ he said, offering his hand in greeting. ‘Ingrid says you’re interested in Jens Halvorsen and Anna
Landvik?’

‘Yes,’ I said, shaking his hand before showing him the photocopy of the book cover.

He took it and gazed at it with a nod. ‘I believe we have a copy upstairs in the library. Would you like to follow me?’

He showed me through a door that led to an austere entrance hall. Compared to the modern decor of the bookshop, it was like taking a step back in time. He opened the old-fashioned gate to the
lift, closed it behind us and pressed a button. As we rattled upwards, he indicated a particular floor as we passed it. ‘That is the apartment in which Ibsen himself lived for the last eleven
years of his life. We consider ourselves privileged to have custody of it. So,’ he said as we emerged from the lift into an airy room, the walls of which were lined floor to ceiling with
books, ‘are you an historian?’

‘Goodness, no,’ I replied. ‘The book was a legacy to me from my father, who died a few weeks ago. In fact, maybe I should say it’s more of a clue, because I’m still
not sure what it has to do with me. I’m currently having the whole text translated from Norwegian to English, and I’ve only read the first instalment. All I really know so far is that
Jens was a musician who played the opening bars of “Morning Mood” at the premiere of
Peer Gynt
. And that Anna was the ghost voice for Solveig’s songs.’

‘To be honest, I’m not sure how much I can help you, because my subject is obviously Ibsen, rather than Grieg. You really need to see an expert on Grieg himself and the ideal person
to help you is the curator of the Grieg Museum up in Bergen. However,’ he said, as he scanned the bookshelves, ‘there is one thing I can show you. Ah, there it is.’ He pulled a
large old book from the shelves. ‘This was written by Rudolf Rasmussen – known as “Rude” – who was one of the children in the original production of
Peer
Gynt
.’

‘Yes! I’ve read about him in the book. He was a go-between delivering messages to Jens and Anna when they first fell in love at the theatre.’

‘Really?’ Erik said as he leafed through the pages. ‘Here, these are pictures from that very first night, with all the cast members in costume.’

He handed the book to me, and I stared incredulously into the faces of the very people I’d just been reading about. There was Henrik Klausen as Peer Gynt and Thora Hansson as Solveig. I
tried to imagine her looking like a glamorous star out of Solveig’s peasant clothes. Other photographs showed the entire cast, although I knew Anna would not be in any of them.

‘I can photocopy the pictures if you wish,’ Erik suggested, ‘and then you can study them at your leisure.’

‘That would be wonderful, thank you.’

As Erik walked over to the photocopier that stood in a corner, my eyes fell on a print of an old theatre. ‘I walked past the National Theatre today, and could just imagine how it was when
Peer Gynt
opened,’ I commented to break the silence.

‘Actually,
Peer Gyn
t didn’t open at the National Theatre. It was premiered at the Christiania Theatre.’

‘Oh. I’d presumed it was the same building that had simply changed its name?’

‘Sadly, the old Christiania Theatre is long gone. It was in Bankplassen, fifteen minutes or so away from here. It’s now a museum.’

I stared at Erik’s back as my mouth fell open in amazement. ‘Do you by any chance mean the Museum of Contemporary Art?’

‘I do. The Christiania Theatre was closed in 1899 and anything musical moved to the newly built National Theatre. Here,’ he said, handing me the photocopied sheets.

‘Well, I’m sure I’ve taken up far too much of your time, but thank you very much for seeing me.’

‘Before you leave, let me give you the email address of the curator at the Grieg museum. Tell him I sent you. I’m sure he’ll be able to help you far more than I
have.’

‘Herr Edvardsen, I promise you, you’ve helped me very much indeed,’ I assured him as he scribbled down the email address then handed it to me.

‘Of course, even I bow to the fact that the fame of Grieg’s music for
Peer Gynt
has far outstripped that of the poem itself,’ he said with a smile as he led me towards
the lift. ‘It’s become iconic across the world. Goodbye, Miss D’Aplièse. I’d love to know if you manage to solve the mystery. And I’m always here if you need
any further help.’

‘Thank you.’

As I left the museum, I almost skipped back to the Grand Hotel. The coordinates from the armillary sphere finally made sense. And as I entered the Grand Café, which occupied the front
corner of the hotel, I gazed at the original mural of Ibsen on the wall and knew for certain that somehow, Jens and Anna were part of my story.

Over lunch, I emailed the curator of the Grieg museum, as Erik had suggested. Then out of curiosity, I took a taxi to the site of the old Christiania Theatre. The Museum of Contemporary Art
stood in a square behind a fountain that played in the centre of it. Modern art really wasn’t my thing, though I knew CeCe would love it, and I decided not to go in. Then I saw the Engebret
Café across the square, walked towards it and pushed open the door.