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“Momma,” Erik asked, meandering the garden walkway with Rakel, “what’s in that tower?”
“Nothing.”
“Is it for storage?”
Ice flooded Rakel’s veins as she regarded her childhood prison. “No. The tower has been empty for years.”
“Why would Uncle Steinar build a tower and put nothing in it?”
“Your uncle didn’t build the tower. Your grandfather, King Ingolfr, did.”
“It is a waste of Verglas resources,” Erik said, recalling his economics lessons. “Building it was a terrible idea.”
Rakel rested her hand on her son’s back, allowing his love for her to warm her chilled heart. “Yes. It certainly was.”