The Seventh Child Read Online Free PDF Page B

preserve Danish identity and the national character. It was in this same spirit that the office manager decided to perform a cursory inspection of the strange envelope before placing it on her boss’s desk. She’d held it up to the light, assuring herself that it contained neither explosives nor the flattened body of a rat—the latter having actually happened to a former minister (the symbolism self-evident).
    The envelope bore none of the stickers or slogans generally favored by critics of the administration. According to the date stamp, the letter had been mailed in Copenhagen on May 2, 2008 from the post office in Østerbro. With his letter opener, he flipped the envelope over—found no return address—and then flipped it back again.
    Cautiously, he pressed the bulge. It was soft, giving a bit at his touch.
    He turned his attention away from the envelope for a moment and poured coffee into the mug his daughter had given him for his forty-sixth birthday, their last celebration together. On the mug were the words W ORLD ’ S B EST D AD . He used it only when he was alone.
    Most likely, he thought, the envelope contained an angry message from a concerned Dane fearful of all the foreigners streaming into the country; in exchange for the electoral victories in 2001 and 2005, the National Ministry had pledged to keep immigration under control.
    That’s the kind of letter it could have been. And were it not for one little detail—the address—that’s what he certainly would have thought.
    The address hadn’t been written in pen or typed with a computer. Instead, the sender had gone to the trouble of cutting letters from an old magazine or newspaper—one by one, in different sizes but from the same cheap gray-white paper—neatly affixing them to the envelope, letter by letter, without wasting any glue. For a long time, he stared at the impressive handiwork, before pressing a button to call the Fly— she’d earned her nickname at a Christmas revue for buzzing about completing her tasks. As a personal secretary and office manager, though, she was unmatched.
    As she settled in a seat behind him, he felt a puff of air. He handed her the blue envelope. Her lips moved, and he realized she was counting each of the letters. He’d done the same thing. There were sixty letters all in all. A few of them were red, but most were black, and some of those were bordered in white, including the l in Orla and the l in Pil.
    Orla Pil Berntsen,
    Slotsholmen,
    Christiansborg Slotsplads, Copenhagen K.
    Three lines. Very melodramatic in their multicolored layout.
    “I don’t know what’s in it … ” he said, hesitating. Seeing his middle name made him nervous. He hadn’t used that name officially in many years.
    Carefully, the Fly shook the envelope, as though chasing away the worst possibilities. “Maybe it’s just a dead mouse,” she said softly.
    “A dead mouse ?” Orla Berntsen blanched in fright.
    “Or animal feces … ” Her pointy nose twitched as if to sniff out the rot in the mysterious correspondence. Her sweating boss gave off a sweet, slightly nauseating odor. The Fly flew to the window and opened it wide.
    If the letter didn’t have this strange aura around it, he would’ve considered it a joke. Instead he felt fear creep in, a tickling feeling in his nostrils—which he recognized from the world of his childhood. He knew a headache would descend on him in a matter of minutes.
    “Maybe we should let the mail room open it after all,” the Fly said in a near whisper.
    He imagined the headline in Independent Weekend : “Top Official Lets Innocent Officers Face the Music.”
    “It’s probably nothing dangerous,” he said, grabbing the letter opener.
    The Fly emitted a little squeal and eased away from him.
    “I’m sure it’ll be a dud, and they—whoever they are—will just get a lot of free publicity.” Once again, he sniffled.
    Then he used the fine, arched letter opener that Lucilla had given him as a