Ragnar Jónasson

She became aware that it was freezing cold. Of course, that was to be expected at this time of year. The house was feeling its age and when the wind blew from a certain quarter the only way to keep warm in some of the rooms, like here in the sitting room, was to wrap yourself in a thick blanket, as she had done now. The blanket kept her bodysnug, but her hands, sticking out from under it, were so chilly that it was hard to turn the pages. Still, she put up with it. Reading gave her greater pleasure than anything else she knew. A good book could transport her far, far away, to a different world, another country, another culture, where the climate was warmer and life was easier. That’s not to imply that she was ungrateful or discontented withthe farm or its location, not really. It was Einar’s family home, after all, so the only thing for it was to grit one’s teeth and make the best of it. Growing up in post-war Reykjavík, Erla had never dreamt of becoming a farmer’s wife in the wild Icelandic highlands, but when she met Einar he had swept her off her feet.