Chapter 22: Ink

The Blomqvist hall stood just as Linnea had left it.

It had the long table, the blue banner and the Archive on its stand.

The only difference was the crowd.

Half the river had come up from the Landing.

Boatmen and net-menders, farmers, wives with babies, the old ferryman, the miller and his sons.

They stood along the walls, shoulder to shoulder, and went silent when she walked in.

A year ago she had stood in this room in a blue dress.

They had watched her be struck out of the book.

She wore her grey Watch coat now.

Theron walked at her side, and Edda behind them with her arms folded.

Her father stood by the Archive stand with his hands at his sides.

Beside him was the keeper, a spare old man in a grey gown.

He had a pencil behind his ear and a pot of ink at his elbow.

"Linnea," her father said.

"Father."

"I have asked the river to come," he said. "I would not do this in a closed room."

He turned and faced the crowd.

His voice was low and dry, and it carried to the back wall.

"On the ninth of Harvest last year, I stood in this hall and had my daughter struck from the Archive."

He did not look away from them.

"I told you she had shamed us. I told you she was no longer a Blomqvist."

Nobody moved.

"None of that was true. I did it because I was afraid, and I did not trust her with the reason."

He swallowed.

"I let a seventeen-year-old girl carry her own bag down to a river boat."

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