Yes, the occasion made me nervous, with its echoes of our welcome-to-Gimli disaster party six years earlier. But I was a different person now. The girl who turned the cartwheel was Before Freya. Now I was After Freya, a restrained, contained shadow of my former self. Expect no fateful gymnastics, Cousin. No ambulances, no mothers in comas.Not to say that nothing happened. Much did. One thing in particular. A thing by the name of Saemundur. Rhymes with eye-moon-lure. Saemundur was Ulfur's sixteen-year-old son, who was living with his father while his mother was finding herself in Spain. (At the time it seemed strange to me, this idea of locating your lost self in another country. A place where you'd never been. It no longer seems so odd.) Ulfur's other children were in their twenties, both in graduate school in the States, but Saemundur was like me, a late-in-life child. If he existed at all-something I was beginning to doubt. Two days we'd been at the house of books and still no sign of Saemundur.
