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vain hope of finding a little moving air. She watched Mrs. House approach, a tall, raw-boned woman in a navy-blue dress that Sonja was sure the woman would have worn had she attended a funeral that afternoon. Nor would Mrs. House’s expression likely have been more dour at a funeral, though what Dagny Singstad said was true: It would be a cold day in hell when you saw Lucille House smile, but it would be an even colder one when you saw her cry.
    Holding a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, Mrs. House loomed over her daughter-in-law. “Mind if I sit?”
    Sonja moved closer to the edge of her own chair. “Please.” Mrs. House left an empty chair between them.
    “Looks like we fastened that veil down good and tight.”
    Sonja raised her hand and gently touched the netting to confirm that it was still in place.
    “I have to ask you,” Mrs. House said. “Are there any old country names you have to give that child of yours?”
    Sonja looked frantically for her husband. The cigar and cigarette smoke, the steam coming off the dancers, the early darkness from the approaching storm—it seemed to Sonja as though she had to squint through a fog to see across the room. Was that Henry’s back in the group by the makeshift bar? The white-shirted men circling there reminded Sonja of ships with their sails full, but she could not be certain her husband was among them.
    Sonja knew she didn’t show, and Henry had assured her he’d told no one of her condition. Had Mrs. House guessed? Or was Sonja mistaken— perhaps the little gesture that Mrs. House made in the direction of Sonja’s stomach was not intended to accompany the question. Or maybe Mrs. House simply knew that someday Sonja and Henry would have children.
    “My father’s name,” Sonja softly said, “is Hans. My mother is Ulrikka.”
    “Hansy House. Jesus. The boy’d never live that down. And Ulrikka, you say? You wouldn’t saddle a child with that one, would you?”
    Sonja shook her head.
    Lucille House drew deeply on her cigarette and then exhaled, creating one more cloud for Sonja to try to see through. “It was Henry’s father’s wish,” Mrs. House said, “that one day a child would be named after him.”
    “He was John?”
    “That he was. John House. A boy could go through the world with worse.”
    Sonja nodded.
    “That’s that, then. If it’s a girl, you’re on your own. Though I’d be real surprised if your firstborn turns out to be a girl. Now, as long as I’ve got your ear,” Mrs. House continued, “do you mind if I give you some advice about living the married life with that son of mine?”
    The language still harbored mysteries for Sonja. She knew, for instance, that the drink Mrs. House favored, and was likely drinking now, was a brandy old-fashioned. But wasn’t that the wrong order— shouldn’t it be old-fashioned brandy? And the way Mrs. House phrased her question—it sounded as though she had once been married to her own son!
    “Make him get rid of that horse of his.”
    “Buck?” Sonja asked.
    “Hell yes, Buck. Tell Henry he can keep his fishing rods and his rifle, but he’s got to sell his horse.” Mrs. House shook her head at a memory that bobbed to the surface. “John took the boy’s gun from him one year. Damn near broke his heart . . . But it’s up to you: Henry’s heart or yours. A civilized husband or a wild horseman.”
    Sonja should have been able to shrug off Mrs. House’s advice as nothing more than a drunk’s windy false wisdom, but after her mother-in-law’s prescience regarding Sonja’s pregnancy, Mrs. House’s words seemed to carry the force of prophecy.
    Mrs. House finished her drink, cracking between her back teeth the ice that had slid into her mouth with the last of the liquor. She stood, and when she was looking down once again at Sonja, Mrs. House said, “But you won’t be saying anything to him, will you?”
    Sonja shook her head.
    “I didn’t think so,” Mrs. House said, and