It’s early morning in the land of the Vikings, and the tickling of rain on the windows reminds me of the biting Swedish autumn outside. It’s the perfect weather to take me away into my imaginary world, the world I enjoy to its fullest, the world where images flutter past telling momentary stories, until that wonderful turning point when one settles into something more.
My favourite time to write is in the early morning when I know the world around me is in deep slumber. There are no lights in the neighbouring windows and only a distant car can be heard in irregular intervals. With a hint of light, I can see leaves waving furiously to get my attention. But I won’t let them rob me of this moment. Before long, the thieves of the day will join forces anyway and take me back to the world we all live in. A candle lit and a throw to curl up in with my trusty companion in my lap. No, not a dog – my laptop. There’s something not quite right about that, I mutter, scratching my head.
What is right though and infinitely remarkable, is how that single flame can turn into the trailing dress of an Edwardian artist at the turn of the century England. As the flame flickers in the hurricane lamp, the woman is jostled when she hears the trampling of feet at her back. She knows he has come to tell her the truth about what happened that night. And as the flame grows unexpectedly, she hears him dismount his horse as she faces the raging coastline. Whisking around, her dress picking up the dirt at her feet and feeling the dagger between her fingers, she’s ready to ask herself, should she or shouldn’t she?
When I look out the window, the light of the day has come and I hear twitches in the other rooms. The thieves have awakened.