That’s why she’d entered a contest to go anywhere in the world. That’s why she’d chosen Tromsø in January. Polar night, long days of nothing but dark, just a hint of twilight spread across the midafternoon. Dacey had a new Nikon in her luggage and a photo-essay outline on her Mac.
One week of polar night—one week photographing the aurora borealis—she called the project Winterglow, but that would probably change. Maybe to something like I Don’t Know Much about Photography or I Just Thought I Might Get Some Sleep if the Sun Never Came Up.
It was a work in progress.
The camera was busted.
Dacey glared at it, her only Christmas present just for this trip, all six hundred dollars’ worth of it.
New images popped up on her computer screen. Unearthly greens and blues filled each shot, sinuous curves stretching the heavens. The software chugged away, piecing multiple pictures into one panorama—and it was almost breathtaking. Almost.
In the middle of each picture was a spot. A smudge. A pale something that repeated all the way across the panorama. She couldn’t cut it out—she didn’t know how to Photoshop it out. Her first set of pictures was ruined.
Dacey opened one and zoomed until the smudge filled the entire screen. Tension burning between her shoulder blades, she leaned in to stare. A pale smear with dark streaks in it marred the shot. It was delicate, like a wisp of fog or an errant puff of cottonwood.
It looks like a face, her brain chirped.
“Shut up,” she replied.
It seriously does, her brain replied. A younger, cuter version of Thor.
Sliding from her chair, Dacey closed the laptop and started for the bedroom. It was lack of sleep talking—when she was really low on Zs, she saw minotaurs on subways and phantoms during physics class. She felt rooms shaking when they totally weren’t. And now, apparently, she saw handsome faces in the aurora borealis, in the middle of polar night.
Best to ignore it all; none of it was real. Maybe sleep deprivation made her crazy, but she didn’t have to actively participate. She stripped off her jeans and collapsed into the turned-down bed.
Around her, the cottage cooled with a low, blue glow. Moonlight on the snow outside seemed to make the world quieter. There was a serenity to the long run of hills; they turned to stone mountains on the horizon. Dark water spread into the distance, still as glass. The world was a lullaby.
Sleep didn’t come. Instead, her mind hopped on a hamster wheel. Tromsø wasn’t what she’d expected at all. She’d thought there would be a hostel, tons of people everywhere. Instead, she had her own cottage, one of several tucked into the countryside.
The exchange counselor had given her a huge binder full of touristy things to do, and then left her alone to do them. Which was actually kind of nice, and something she would never, ever tell her mother.
Then she wondered what was wrong with the camera—if she could fix it here, or if her dad would have to return it. She couldn’t go back to New York with nothing. It had a warranty, right? Of course it did—it was brand-new.
New camera, broken camera, face, not a face, what’s that noise outside, maybe nothing, maybe wolves, until it finally settled into a soothing pattern of white noise.
Not once did she wonder who had turned down the bed.
Morning never came. When Dacey finally rolled out of bed, a dusky imitation of dawn greeted her—the sky still dark, sunrise colors at the horizon. Her travel clock insisted it was 9:00, but was that a.m. or p.m.?
Hunger ended the contemplation. Dacey stumbled to her feet and trudged toward the kitchen. Then she groaned when she realized the cupboard and the fridge were empty. Briefly, she glanced at the giant block of orange cheese crackers.
“Sorry,” she told them. “I’m not that desperate yet.”
A brisk hike and a ferry ride later, Dacey strode through the streets of Tromsø proper. Though the streets were narrow and the lights were on, it didn’t feel like a village. It was very much a city on the edge of night, full of people, full of life. Everything glittered in purple and gold: the water, the buildings, even the mountains in the distance.
She followed the buzz into the heart of town and eventually found herself in a café that promised omelets and reindeer.
When her waiter greeted her in Norwegian, she managed to reply, then consulted her phrase book. “Snakker de Engelsk?”
“American?”
“Yes.” She folded the menu and smiled up at him.
Ruddy cheeked and animated, the waiter could have been twenty or fifty—it was hard to say. His hair was so pale, it could have been gold or silver, but his smile seemed friendly. He leaned against the table comfortably. “Visiting family?”
“On vacation. Sort of.” It sounded so weird to say that; to realize she was on vacation all by herself. Apparently, that thought showed in her expression, because the waiter laughed.
“Sort of?”
“I’m doing a photo-essay on the northern lights,” she answered. “For my school newspaper.”
“They are beautiful.” He hummed his approval, then leaned over to help her with the menu. After selecting a salmon-egg omelet and convincing her to try the lefse bread with currant jam, he stood and offered, “For the best view, you should try to get away from town. Just a hop on the ferry . . .”
Pleased for no real reason, Dacey gestured vaguely behind her. “Oh! I have that view. I’m in a little cottage across the bay. The harbor. The bay?”
“Harbor,” he said.
“It’s perfect; it’s right on a hill. There are these huge windows. . . .”
Awareness lit his face. “Kristian’s cottage.”
“I didn’t know it had a name.”
The waiter tapped the edge of the table with his order book. “Let me get this started. I’ll be back.”
He disappeared for a moment, and Dacey reconsidered the whole conversation. He seemed nice enough, but she could just hear her mother now: What were you doing, telling a stranger you’re alone? And where to find you! That man could have been an ax murderer!
Considering the number of people her mother thought were ax murderers and the number who actually were, Dacey relaxed. Besides, the guy was obviously on the clock. When would he have time to hack her to death, between courses?
When the waiter returned, he brought her a cup of black coffee and a tray of sugar and milk to sweeten it.
“Right, so,” he said, leaning on the edge of the table. “It’s an old cottage. Very romantic.”
Dacey colored slightly. Was he hitting on her? “I’m just here to take pictures.”
“No, no. Not for us. My Terje would have my head; you would be so disappointed. I mean, a romantic story.” He laughed, a soothing sound that let Dacey settle again. Still leaning at the edge of the table, the waiter glanced up, like he was trying to remember something important.
Finally, he spoke again. “A hundred years ago, almost exactly, I think. A boy named Kristian arrived from the south. Couldn’t have been much older than you. And he went to work, building a cottage for his sweetheart. He said she only came in the dark. He lived his whole life for the polar nights.”
Leaning in, Dacey asked, “Regular night wasn’t good enough for her?”
“He claimed she didn’t belong to this world.”
Starting to smile, Dacey shook her head. “Seriously?”
“The sunlight drove her away,” the waiter said. He brushed his fingers together, holding back a laugh. “So she came when the nights were the longest. Maybe she was a vampire.”