„Sometimes human places create inhuman monsters.“

The Shining, Stephen King

***

Mr.Olin: It´s an evil fucking room.

Mr.Olin: Look, I´m not telling you not to stay in that room for your own good or for the profit of the hotel. Frankly, selfishly, I just don´t want to clean up the mess.

Quote on postcard: Don’t enter 1408.

Hotel operator: I’m sorry, sir. That room is not available.

Mike: …I didn’t tell you the date.

Room 1408, Stephen King

***

As she walked toward the hotel, the April sun had long since vanished. She pulled her coat tighter around herself — still refusing to put it away for the season. Even though she had lived in Norway for several years, she still struggled to get used to the persistent cold. Short nights and long days — which she could enjoy despite working night shifts — did little to ease the creeping depression that came with feeling like the world came alive just as she was falling asleep.

And her mood that evening wasn’t helped by the post-lunch (for her, morning) coffee conversation. From the moment she opened her eyes, peeled off her sleep mask, and drew the curtains, to the moment she found herself walking toward the hotel — barely two hours had passed.

While her sleep-deprived eyes watched the steam curl up from her coffee, her Norwegian boyfriend stepped over and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Ready for work?”

“Leave me alone,” she snapped back. “I slept like shit.”

“Ever since you talked with the boss lady, you’re always in a foul mood before work.”

“And you wouldn’t be?”

He knew that no matter what he answered, it wouldn’t improve her state. At best, it would just mess up their relationship even more. If he pretended it was nothing, she’d probably bury him with some hysterical outburst. A remark like I told you to stop digging into history, you never know what kind of crap you’ll stir up would’ve been the legendary spark to three tons of dynamite. The very same dynamite that was now walking toward the entrance of the hotel.

She found herself surprised at how much knowledge could open previously unseen doors in one’s mind. She had never looked at the hotel spaces she worked in the way she did now. Maybe it was blissful ignorance that had kept her afloat. But then it all came at once. A tidal wave. Just a few days ago, her name — and her boyfriend’s — had started coming up in connection with engagements, and in her opinion, that was the last nice thing she’d heard in a while.

Lost in thought, she didn’t turn toward the entrance but kept walking straight toward the fjord shore. She only snapped out of it when she realized she couldn’t see the hotel in front of her anymore, turned around, and headed back toward the door.

“…these Norwegians…” echoed a snippet of a conversation with a colleague in her mind. “…such closed-off types. Even if you marry one of them, they might still never fully accept you. I know an Estonian woman — years later, they still didn’t invite her to a christening…”

During that shift, she had a vague feeling she heard footsteps — but that old building, like every other, creaked every few minutes. She didn’t think much of it. More for the sake of her own sanity, she just shrugged it off indifferently.

When she stepped through the entrance hall of Hotel, a nasty chill bit into her. The bar in the atrium was just closing, bartenders finishing their cleanup, bagging up keys and filling out closing logs. From the dining room — spisesal, in Norwegian — the guests had long gone (the waitstaff had scattered soon after, led by the gaunt British head waiter, who was surely the reincarnation of Ed Gein).

On the shelves opposite the reception desk sat a handful of books left behind by tourists. Paperbacks in English, Norwegian, German — even a couple of Spanish novels. D. could already understand Norwegian by now, more the written kind than the spoken. But when she first picked up a Norwegian book years ago, she could barely make sense of every second page. The book she read first was still there. By Aksel Sandemos.

D. leaned against the front of the reception desk, on the guest side. Her Polish colleague was currently filling out a key return log — keys the bartenders of uncertain nationality had lazily tossed toward the computer. “How’s it going?” D. began some casual small talk.

The Polish woman didn’t seem particularly focused. She glanced somewhere under the counter, where D. knew there were stacks of paperwork, guest books, and the switchboard that connected the front desk to all the rooms. “At least there’ll be someone to chat with during the night shifts,” she thought with a hint of amusement. The idea of randomly dialing guests’ rooms during her shifts and opening with, “So, how’s life treating you?” was almost too tempting. Her actual job description during night duty had nothing glamorous about it — punching receipts into the system (those lazy bastards could do it themselves, they’re bartenders!), vacuuming (I’d rather be drinking), and doing patrols (fuck doing those three times a night).

In a quiet Norwegian village like this, she’d gladly take a friendly conversation. Sometimes the bartenders she’d known for a while would drop by to chat for a moment, but none ever stuck around till the end of her shift.

When she looked at the watch on her wrist, it glowed 22:42. Her shift would start in three minutes (only a complete idiot could come up with a start time like that).

“Gotta go…” the Polish woman pulled D. out of her thoughts, “…by the time I get home, it’s gonna take forever again.”

“Ha det,” D. said in Norwegian, more or less half-heartedly, and gave a small wave.

Through the wooden revolving door behind the desk, she stepped into the staff area. She checked herself in the mirror. Makeup on, hair in two braids parted by a line of pale skin down the middle. Blouse, blazer, and a pin showing the hotel’s award for Best Historical Resort in the World.

The night shift didn’t truly begin until she stepped behind the desk and logged her arrival in the mobile app.

***

First, she pulled a stack of papers from the bottom drawer. Her intrusive thought was to write “colleague’s dead-eyed stare” in the SHIFT INFORMATION field — but in the end, she kept it professional and just filled it with a long dash. Then she set the stack aside.

In front of her were several monitors. She quickly skimmed through the email inbox first — her coworkers hadn’t left a single email marked unread, which was supposed to mean there were no messages for her. Then her gaze moved to the security camera feeds. She could see the atrium, all the dining areas, the front drive, and the rear exit.

The silence around her didn’t strike her as anything unusual anymore. The few guests who had decided to avoid tourist crowds were long tucked away in their rooms in the cheap, modern wing.

She sighed. And here we go again — another boring-ass shift. Later, when she remembered having that thought, she scolded herself. Nice going, genius — tempting fate like that. While one eye casually watched the monitors, the other was busy scrolling through Instagram posts.

She rarely stopped to realize she had become one of the people she used to admire on Instagram — the ones who had seen the world. When she first got on social media as a teen, she loved scrolling through the profiles of people who had traveled abroad. Posts with Norwegian fjords had once felt like another world — now they were her own uploads.

She would’ve looked through some old posts from the NorwayTravelers page too, if something hadn’t suddenly blinked in her peripheral vision.

Her attention drifted from the glowing phone screen to the switchboard. The phone that connected all 190 rooms in the hotel was ringing — in that quieter tone they’d set years ago to avoid echoes in the atrium. A row of grey LEDs marked incoming calls. One of them blinked: room 207.

She stiffened.

That room was in the old part of the hotel, the one prepped for renovation. Maybe some late-night worker decided to cheekily ask for an “unofficial” coffee? There were enough tech guys around the hotel lately — she wouldn’t be surprised if one of them thought 11:30 PM was the perfect time for a cup.

That room wasn’t supposed to be calling anyone.

She reached for the receiver. Mid-trajectory, her hand froze.

A cold wave swept over her.

But then, for a split second, reason kicked in — It’s gotta be some lazy worker.
She snatched the phone up quickly. She knew that if she hesitated, she probably wouldn’t pick it up at all.

She had a mouthful of curses ready to spit at the bastard on the other end.

“Well, what th—”

“GET OUT!” a man’s voice screamed into the phone. It was cold. Terrifying.

The receiver slipped from her hand, bounced off the edge of the counter, and dangled just above the floor by its cord. “YOU DON’T DESERVE THIS! YOU DON’T BELONG HERE! GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUUUUT…!” 

The voice shrieked from the swaying phone. She grabbed it and slammed it down against the switchboard.

Silence.

Panting, she looked at the lights. The incoming call from room 207 was still lit up — but it wasn’t ringing anymore. “What the hell is this supposed to mean?” she asked the empty atrium. A nasty chill gripped her. She stood frozen, staring at the red blinking light.

“This is a shitty joke, guys,” she muttered under her breath once her nerves settled, convincing herself it was just a stupid prank. One of those dumb things bored workers pulled during night shifts.

The fact that no workers or technicians were on-site at night… she quietly shoved to the back of her mind.

When she was lucky enough that her friends were finishing their evening bar shifts, she’d do her patrol rounds with them. On the way, they’d chat about the latest gossip — who’s sleeping with whom, who’s creeping after who — and she wouldn’t even notice how quickly she’d gotten through the most depressing part of her shift.

Sooner or later, though, she had to do it anyway. The night watch required three rounds per shift, mainly to check that nothing in the historical wing was leaking, no heater had been left on, and nothing was about to burst into flames or flood the place. That part of the hotel was so dull that even one round felt like overkill. Honestly, she doubted anyone else even did it. But the water leak from a few nights ago forced her to act responsibly. If something happened again, losing her job might not even be the worst of it.

All she had on her mind was one thing: ten minutes of walking around, and for the rest of the shift she’d reward herself for being freaked out — with glorious, shameless slacking. Meaning Instagram, Netflix on her phone, and celebrity trash gossip.

She pushed through the creaky little door behind the reception and stepped into the historical part of the hotel. History made itself heard from the very first step — the wooden floors groaned under her feet. She remembered how, during her first few shifts, every creak used to freak her out. But she’d gotten used to it quickly. Only one staircase led to the upper floors, and from the stairs on, everything was carpeted. The creaking disappeared completely.

Like any family-run business, this one had photos of old family members hanging on the walls. Eyes that, on most days, didn’t seem to be staring from the frames… now felt somehow different.

Hotel had been standing for nearly three hundred years, so the place was loaded with photos.

Old shots taken with Polaroids, black-and-whites; kids playing with a pram in a meadow; a man in uniform; a family portrait of unfamiliar faces in front of a house.

She’d never thought much of them before — but now their expressions looked hateful.

The sense of paranoia hit her faster than she liked. Goosebumps broke out all over her arms. She picked up the pace and climbed to the first floor. During high season, the hotel would come alive even at night. You’d hear guests chatting behind all kinds of doors. You could do this round during times when voices echoed from every corner. And during the peak of summer, you might even do it while it was still light out (thank God for the midnight sun). But right now, the historical section was dead silent. Aside from a group of barely-mobile, half-collapsing British tourists from Newmarket, the hotel was empty. And even they wouldn’t have been much help if something actually happened — they were long asleep in the modern wing, and wouldn’t hear her even if she screamed her lungs out.

Still, duty is duty. The historical wing covered two floors. Her first stop was the attic. She knew that place far too well by now — the fear was mostly muscle memory. She knew exactly what to expect: a few coats hung up for workers to grab on cold evenings, a stray pram, some children’s toys.
She climbed to the second floor of guest rooms, then another half-flight up, where she faced a narrow wooden door.

She opened it, and in front of her appeared stairs leading into darkness.

There were no lights in the attic. Her phone would have to do. She climbed the narrow steps. When she reached the top, a long attic corridor unfolded before her. To her left was a tiny storage room — barely half a stride deep — and a logbook hanging on the wall. She didn’t technically need to walk through, but she took a few steps anyway — a big, old brick chimney ran down the middle, and she peered behind it. No dripping pipes. No flicker of a flame, though she wasn’t even sure how a fire would start in here anyway. Not even any of those electric heaters the owner used to justify this traumatic little ritual. Just the same dusty pram — identical to the one in those old staircase photos — but it didn’t creep her out the way it used to. Even if it still called to mind every horror movie ever made with ghost children. 

She signed the control log (and went ahead and filled in the other two required patrol time slots with random future times), then headed back down the stairs into the corridor of guest rooms.

***

What was staring at her from the attic corner, she only caught with the corner of her eye — but her mind, for the sake of her own sanity, chose to block out that black silhouette.

***

She passed through the residential wing into the renovated section, which hadn’t yet been opened to the public. The moment she stepped into the off-limits area, even the surroundings changed.
Old wooden walls, creaking floors again. The small rooms had once belonged to workers — now they were filled with junk and tools, while the workers had long been relocated to different corners of the village. One wooden wall had a photo of a brunette taped up at eye level. Judging by the paper and the print quality, it was from a ‘90s magazine. Who had put it there, and why, she had no idea — but no one had ever bothered to take it down. Still, that woman’s gaze, on that particular night, looked as if her eyes were about to drop right out of their sockets… and from between her lips, she might bare a set of carnivorous fangs.

Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced left at a door. Room 205 — printed on a cheap plastic plaque. Opposite was 206, which meant the door a few steps ahead on the left should be 207. She’d never paid attention to the room numbers before. They never interested her. She had no reason to care. This hallway was one she only ever needed to pass through — and tonight was no different.

She kept her gaze on the floor and walked forward, trying not to trip over anything lying around.
One hammer. One pipe wrench. Then she looked up and saw the door beside her — emergency exit.

She froze.

She looked back at the previous door: 205. Opposite: 208. The door that was marked as an emergency exit stood exactly where 207 should’ve been. If she’d ever seen a Stephen King horror, she probably would’ve passed out. Instead, she just turned pale — like a corpse straight out of a Bram Stoker novel.

A horrified look wrapped tight around her face.

WHERE THE FUCK IS 207?!

She wouldn’t have cared… if it weren’t for the phone call. With trembling hands, she reached for the logbook. It was further down the hallway, near the square staircase. She looked down. Four floors separated her from the ground level. A faint night light glowed at the very bottom — and in the middle of the stairwell stood a figure. D. couldn’t see anything in its face. Because where a face should have been… there was only skin. 

“I TOLD YOU TO GET OUT!” the man’s voice bellowed. The threatening tone stripped away any illusion of formality — and D. bolted back down the hallway.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” she cursed as she ran, turning corners, “…shit, shit, shit…”

Ahead of her were the doors leading back to the residential wing. She could hear the man running up the stairs behind her. Heavy steps. “YOU DON’T BELONG HERE! YOU DON’T!”

D. sprinted for the door. The man was already in the hallway behind her. He punched the wall — the wood shuddered, coughing up dust from between its joints.

D. was ten steps from the door when she heard his voice again. “HOW DARE YOU?!”

She threw herself at the door. It flew open with a crash, and D. exhaled in relief — she’d made it. That somehow, in some twisted logic, the “public part of the hotel” would shield her from the man with twisted intentions. The feeling was so strong, she couldn’t bring herself not to believe it. 

The door slammed open, hit the wall — and D. found herself in the attic.

“What the fuck?!” she screamed, voice already cracking. “What is happening?!”

“STOP!” the man yelled angrily behind her.

She stood at the entry to a small supply space under the roof.

She turned sharply and ran down a staircase. She should end up in the residential wing — from the other side. She jumped over several steps. She remembered closing those doors behind her during her last visit, and her mind began conjuring terrifying images of where they might lead this time.

She pushed the door open — and landed in the hallway of the workers’ rooms.

“No way…”

She was caught in a loop.

The man was descending the creaking staircase. “YOU SNAKE!” he screamed. “STOP RIGHT NOW!”

D. took off running down the corridor. She passed rooms 205 and 206.

The photo of the brunette from the retro magazine — now the face in the photo turned slightly in the direction the night receptionist was running. D. let out a shriek, but kept running.

She passed room 208.

She hoped the door would lead her back to the main wing, but even from a distance, she could already see it was open — and beyond it lay the attic again. But the sound of those heavy, creaking steps behind her didn’t allow her time to stop and reflect on this looping madness. Absurdity ahead didn’t feel half as terrifying as the faceless man’s screams behind her. Especially considering those screams…were coming from a man with no mouth.

D. made the only choice she had left. She ran.

She ran once more through the storage space, down the stairs — and again found herself back in the hallway.

Passing doors.

“I’LL KILL YOU! DON’T YOU DARE TRY TO JOIN US!”

“What?! Join?! I don’t want to join you!” she shot back, as if it mattered. She hurried on.

205 and 206.

“YOU WON’T ESCAPE ME!”

207.

Huh?

Even with the faceless rage chasing her, she stopped. Room 207.

She had no idea where in this loop she was. Instead of the emergency exit, the door now read 207. D. rushed to open it.

No creak.

She could hear the man behind the corner.

She shut the door behind her — gently, but fast.

Once there was silence, she pressed a hand to her mouth.

The hotel had gone still.

Only now did the man’s footsteps enter the hallway of rooms. He was hurrying. “STOP, YOU SNAKE!” he kept yelling. He rushed past the door — but the steps kept going. Apparently, the faceless face hadn’t seen the new door where D. had found her hiding place. The screams faded as he ran off down those looping corridors.

D. turned to face the room — and froze in horror.

A wave of cold swept over her.

For a moment, she wanted nothing more than to be back in the hallway, running from that faceless thing. Room 207 was full of faceless silhouettes. But these ones had mouths. And they all held their index fingers up to their lips.

A sign for silence.

Her heart kicked like mad — like it had gone feral.

***

She would’ve had a hard time saying those beings were looking at her. It was more like the empty space where their faces should’ve been was turned toward her. Her lips trembled, her whole body shook. She didn’t know whether she should turn around and bolt out of the room—though she had no clue what that would mean next. In both places, the hallway and Room 207, she’d be running from something. At least, that’s what it felt like.

But unlike the faceless creature out in the hallway, these ones didn’t move. Yes, they still held a finger to their lips, silently commanding her to be quiet—but they didn’t come any closer. They knew she was there. Of that, she had no doubt. The man’s voice from the hallway had grown faint. That was a good sign, at least—it meant he was far. If the hotel had gone completely silent, she wouldn’t have known anything.

The beings were dressed in all sorts of outfits—flowing gowns, tight skirts, a few elegant men’s suits. One of them wore a grey shirt with suspenders holding up trousers that looked straight out of the early 1900s. She got the impression these figures represented different eras—everything from the tight bodices of the late Victorian period to the uniforms of the Second World War.

D. glanced at her phone. She wished she could call for help, but there was no signal whatsoever. She didn’t dare scream either—if the man outside heard her, he’d know exactly where she was. He had no eyes, and yet he didn’t stumble into walls. No mouth, and still he screamed. He surely had no ears—but somehow, he heard.

“W-what’s happening?” she stammered.

“There’s no saving us,” said several mouths at once. “But you…”

“…you can still make it…”

“…we were…”

“…yes, we were…”

“…arrogant…”

“…prideful…” a few male voices joined the female chorus. “…and Gierløw… he found us…”

D. began to tremble again.

“…but you…” they said in soothing voices, as if they could read the fear in her thoughts, “…you can still make it. All it takes is… not being arrogant… or proud.”

“I-I-I’m not.”

“Then you’ll be fine,” the beings said, almost indifferently.

“W-what do you mean, fine?”

The man’s voice outside started growing again—closer. The room fell quiet.

“I’LL FIND YOU! YOU CAN’T ESCAPE ME! NO ONE ESCAPES IF I WANT TO FIND THEM!” His voice turned hoarse. She had the feeling that, somehow, he had found her. Maybe he’d sensed her fear. It kept getting louder. He was just outside. And then it weakened again. He was walking on—trapped in the eternal loop of attic, staircase, and hallway.

Once his shouting had faded, D. spoke again.

“Is he Gierløw?”

“Yes,” nodded one of the beings, dressed in 19th-century clothes—a wide skirt supported by crinoline, a tightly laced scarlet bodice, a small diadem at her throat, jasper pearls on hands without fingernails. One hand was still at her lips, the other rested gently across her stomach. “The original innkeeper. A long time ago.”

“He got caught in the loop,” said another being. “A loop of rage.”

“How do I get out of here?” D. pleaded, as if she only had time for that one question. Then the horror struck her—maybe these beings had once been in the exact same loop, the same one she was in now—and never escaped.

“You must confront Gierløw. We couldn’t. He is rage and hate.”

“Why?”

They were silent. But when she listened closely, she realized Gierløw was too far away now. They weren’t silent by choice. They just didn’t know the answer.

D. began pacing the room. That voice on the phone—that had to be Gierløw. But how had he called her from this room if he now couldn’t find it? She didn’t want to think about it. She was just glad she’d escaped.

While the beings said nothing, she could still hear Gierløw’s shouts. Why would he hate me? And what’s with all this pride talk? None of it made sense. She’d never thought she was better than anyone. Never once believed she was above others. So if not being arrogant was the way out, then why was she still here?

“Is this where you escaped?” she asked the beings.

“This is where we hid.”

“And you never left,” she stated, voice cracked and uneven.

“You can’t defeat Gierløw…”

“…you must escape him…”

“…stand up to him.”

They spoke as one, yet their answers contradicted each other.

The room’s wallpaper was old—possibly even the asbestos-laced Victorian kind. There was no phone in sight. What she had learned when she first arrived in Norway, at Hotel, was that it had a rich history. That thing out in the hallway—Gierløw—he had to be Nicolai Christian Gierløw. D. was sure of it. The man who was granted the first innkeeping license in 1752. She knew his wife had been a widow named Karen Holm, previously married to a merchant named Niels Eriksen Falch of Feios. Gierløw ran the Holmen Gjestgiveri until 1811, when he died and others took over.

No doubt the Victorian wallpaper had been added sometime after that—tacky, hazardous, and old, the kind only later discovered to be full of asbestos (or so she’d learned from endless night shifts watching Discovery Channel).

The hotel’s later history, after 1877 when O.A.K. took over, wasn’t something she cared for. What changes were made, what new sections were added—those were facts for guests, not her. All she needed to know was the earliest history.

She stared at the wallpaper, patterned with royal lilies. They were pale blue, many faded in spots. But just like that blinking call light from earlier—the one demanding her attention—something about these lilies felt… off. Something there was asking to be seen. 

She tilted her head, instinctively trying a different angle. Still, nothing stood out. She looked closer. Every lily seemed the same.

“J…” said one of the beings.

“…T…” came another voice from across the room.

When D. looked around, the beings were now facing different walls. About six of them stared straight at the floor.

“…N…”

“…A…”

She didn’t get it. Letters? Were they spelling something? She tried to listen, but those facing the walls just repeated their letter. The ones looking at the floor kept saying J. The wall with the door was A. The wall D. herself was staring at said T.

“…here’s an E…”

D. leaned down to look at the floor, but didn’t see anything that looked like a J. Then again, if it was scratched in or hidden, maybe that one would’ve been easiest to miss. She turned to the wall with the door. The beings stopped repeating their letters—Gierløw was near again. But even his shout now sounded weaker. Fading.

And then, in the negative space between the lily designs—between the shapes—she saw it. The letter A. Now she knew where to look. She scanned all the walls and the floor and found the letters: A, J, T, N, E.

Now what? she wondered.

Her long night shifts had led her to do things she normally wouldn’t. Watching endless Netflix shows, scrolling through Instagram accounts she’d never cared for before. And reading. That helped too. Because those letters—they reminded her of something. But she didn’t figure it out until her memory circled back to the book on the shelf in the atrium.

When she had first moved to Norway and wanted to learn the language, she’d read books—even if they were tough at first. One of the first books she’d read had been recommended to her as “a window into the Scandinavian character.” 

And that’s when it all clicked.

JANTE. The name of the town in Aksel Sandemose’s novel A Fugitive Crosses His Tracks. The murder of John Wakefield. The Danish town of Jante. It made sense now. The strict rules.

“Ten…” D. said, and the beings fell silent. “…ten rules.”

The beings recited them, all in unison.

“Don’t think you’re anything special.”

“Don’t think you’re as good as us.”

“Don’t think you’re smarter than us.”

“Don’t convince yourself you’re better than us.”

“Don’t think you know more than us.”

“Don’t think you’re more important than us.”

“Don’t think you’re good at anything.”

“Don’t laugh at us.”

“Don’t think anyone cares about you.”

“Don’t think you can teach us anything.”

D. looked into their silent faces. Gierløw had gone quiet behind the door. She might have panicked at that silence—if she didn’t already feel like she understood.

“You forgot one rule,” she said, turning toward the door. “Don’t think we don’t know something about you.”

D. walked to the door and grabbed the handle.

On the other side, she heard a heavy breath. Wheezing. Panting. Gierløw was waiting.

She opened the door and let him in.

If you know something about me, then I have nothing to fear.

***

But Gierløw just stood there. He stepped aside as she opened the door to the hallway. He had no eyes, and yet she could feel his piercing stare on her face. When D. stepped through the doorway and shut it behind her, Gierløw moved to the side and stood with his back to the wall—like a servant preparing to escort his lady. D. looked at Gierløw, then at the door to Room 207—but it was gone.

She didn’t need it anymore.

“I can feel you’ve understood,” said a voice, deep and masculine. D. couldn’t tell where it came from. It might as well have been from any corner of that body.

Gierløw gestured her forward with a slow arc of his arm, and she had the sense she was finally out of the loop.

“You foreigners are strange,” Gierløw said. “You come to a foreign land, and not all of you are willing to adapt. You bring your customs, your temperaments. You drag your nature along. Not all of you are willing to bend your ways.”

D. stepped into the corridor. Gierløw, as if sensing that walking behind her would be unsettling, kept to her side. His hands were folded behind his back.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you, but understand—I had to protect what’s mine. My people, my friends, my brothers and sisters. If you hadn’t been thinking about engagement, I wouldn’t have come for you. I just had to make sure you’d remember that even though we welcome you with open arms, you mustn’t abuse that welcome.”

“Well, that’s a pretty shit way to go about it, don’t you think?”

“But effective,” Gierløw replied, and though he had no mouth, there was amusement in his voice. “We Scandinavians offer you a greeting and wish you success—but don’t get high and mighty, don’t take advantage. And we know you’re not arrogant. You’ve lived here a while—otherwise, you wouldn’t have lasted.”

D. turned the corner and saw, at the end of the hallway, an open doorway. Beyond it stretched the corridor of the historical wing.

She returned to the atrium, pulled a book from the shelf, and began to read.