She slides her shirt off of her shoulders, and it quickly joins the floor, dashing through the air with the same silent grace as Saxa herself. She loosens the buttons of her skirt, slowly – although, I don't know why – and it, too, falls to the floor in a circle around Saxa's feet.

"Um..." I say it audibly enough for her to hear, as I don't know what else to say. I try to look away, but instead, I allow my eyes to wander across her body, examining its subtle curves, the contrast of her pale skin against the darkness behind her.

The thought crosses my mind that she may have forgotten that I'm here. I call out to her again. "Saxa?"

She moves this time, walking forward slightly then reaching around a corner to switch on a light. The closet before her illuminates, more like a hallway to be honest, whose walls are lined from floor to ceiling in clothing. At the end of this hallway is a mirror, and as Saxa turns to search through a row of clothes for something new to wear, it is my own image that reflects back to me. Red-faced, tangled hair, balancing awkwardly with one foot on the floor and the other on the window's ledge, reinforcing my inadequacy in the presence of such a deity.

I brush through my hair with my fingers, pushing it back and out of my face, tucking some strands behind my ears. I wipe some of the sweat from under my eyes with the sleeve of my sweater – I regret wearing it now. I lower the leg that I had hitched up on the window and press both soles of my feet into the ground.

Saxa steps back, back between me and the mirror, concealing my reflection from view. She's holding a long, white dress up by the hanger, no doubt examining it to determine if she wants to wear it. She lifts her chin and shakes her head to toss the hair off her shoulders. As she does this, her back arches, pressing out her stomach ever so slightly. Her stomach, flat in a way I thought could only be achieved artificially, the way photos are manipulated in magazines. I wonder if she's naturally this skinny, if she has to exercise to achieve it, if she ever watches what she eats, if it's possible that she gets surgery to maintain it.

Again, I remind myself that I should be looking away, but instead, my gaze travels down to her legs, the smooth transition from buttock to thigh, the soft tottering as she shifts her balance from one foot to another. She takes a step forward to return the dress to its rack, and there, between her thighs, a dark mark, purple and blue with red streaks like scratches running through it. She turns to pick a new dress from the row behind her, a red one this time with fringe on the skirt, and maybe I'm just seeing things now, but it looks like there's another mark there on her side, just under her bra.

"Sa—" I start, but catch myself before I can finish, tightening the muscles in my throat to keep me from speaking. This can only be bad for you, I tell myself. I'm sure now that I'm not supposed to be watching, and if I mention something, she'll know that I was staring. Worse, where I was staring.

I push my head down to look away, staring at my hands as they twiddle their thumbs in a circle in my lap. My feet, I force them to move, jumping off of the window to take a new seat on the bed, turning myself away from the closet. In front of me, Audrey Hepburn, tip of her cigarette holder gently pressed against her pursed lips.

"W-what are you d-doing?" I say, maybe a little louder than normal. I stare into Audrey's eyes as if they were Saxa's, reminding myself of the elegant, carefree girl I was sharing cigarettes with only moments ago. I imagine the image moving, Audrey lowering the cigarette from her lips, crossing her arms over her chest, continuing to stare back at me with that unique innocence. Breathe, Jaime, she says.

"Just getting changed for dinner!" Saxa calls from the closet. "What do you think?"

When I turn around to her, she's standing in front of the bed, wearing the red dress with the fringe, smoothing out the wrinkles on her torso and fixing the strands of fringe that don't hang down the way they should. The dress fits her perfectly, as if it's a part of her, not just fabric she's pulled on to cover up.

"You're beautiful."

She looks up at me with a smile. "You mean it?"

I nod and say I do.

"Come," she says, holding out her hand to me. "I'll introduce you to the family."

I wipe the sweat from my palm on the side of my jeans and extend my fingers out to reach hers. She takes hold and pulls me from the bed, guiding me out the bedroom, down the stairs, back to the grand foyer.

It's strange holding her hand. Many moments I feel I should let go, but as I lighten my grip, she merely tightens hers, tugging a little harder on my arm to bring my body closer to hers.

We arrive finally at the bottom of the stairs, and Saxa knocks on the set of double doors next to it, the same ones I had seen her exiting from earlier. From behind them, there is a low, indecipherable grumble, and Saxa looks at me before pushing the door open and walking inside. From the foyer to a darkened study, there is a feeling as if passing through a portal, and Saxa drops my hand, as if the grip had been broken by the simple act of crossing its threshold.

The only light in the office comes from a large fireplace on the far wall, save the bits of sun that escape in around the sides of the curtains on the windows and the newly introduced light from the foyer. In front of the fire is Axel Morstad, whose desk faces the door but who does not look up from his papers as we enter.

"Sh-should I close the door?" I whisper to Saxa, who shakes her head in reply, whispering back that we won't be staying long.

There are no words spoken in the room for many moments. It gives me a chance to observe the room. The walls, they are mostly bare, but I see sculptures on almost every table. Weird, convoluted ones, like balls of animal horns. Darkened brown furnishings, a shag carpet on the marble floor continued from the entry, and just above the fire hangs a shining, silver sword, gold handle with black gripping. The kind I imagine Vikings would use.

Finally, Axel speaks. It is in Norwegian, though, so I can't understand. I look to Saxa for guidance, but she does not look at me.

"Jaime, this is my father, Axel."