There was furniture, of course, but not a lot of it, a round kitchen table with two chairs next to the stove, three rocking chairs in front of the fireplace. In the small bedroom off the kitchen, there was a narrow bed and a blue washbasin on a wooden stand. What filled the rooms of Grete’s cottage so decidedly were woven baskets and wooden boxes and clay pots glazed in red and blue, each with its own mishmash of this and that. Roots and leaves still redolent of dirt. Balls of scratchy wool in variegated strands—purple twining into pink easing into periwinkle fading into gray. At least three boxes held squares and strips of fabrics, all colors, and eight pots overflowed with apples. The walls were lined with shelves, the shelves were lined with books. Wordless spines peered out. As soon as Isabelle saw them, she itched to open one up and read it from cover to cover. “You girls sit, and I’ll bring you something to drink before I set to work on that ankle,” Grete instructed as she opened the stove door and livened up the fire with a few pokes of a stick.
