“Morning, Daddy,” she said. “Good morning.” He smiled. She had undone her braids and her hair now lay spilled out on the pillow around her, a mass of golden waves like a wheat field in summer. She looked like a Scandinavian goddess, Freyja maybe, or a princess, he thought—Eva was right. Isabel sat up and stretched, then pushed herself out of bed, shoved her feet into the slippers and padded over to him. To his surprise, she climbed onto his lap and put her arms around him. “Hey, rakas. What is the matter?” “I had a bad dream.” “What was it about?” She refused to tell him, but seemed happy to snuggle up to him, comforted by his presence, so he sat back in the seat and put his arms around her, resting his lips on the top of her head. There was nothing to her; he could feel the bones of her ribs through her nightdress, and she weighed hardly anything. A rush of love ran through him, and he tightened his arms around her. She was not a daddy’s girl and had never been overly demonstrative, so this sudden display of affection caught him unawares.
