firegap | ( december 22nd )

For dinner, they are having asparagus soup, the housemaid proud of her work as she carries it into the west wing dining room, a German-inspired pinetree decking the far south corner, paper roses and glass ornaments hanging from its branches. December is cold day in and day out, but Caroline Becker thinks of vapour on the mirrors, of mire and mud, unable to squeeze down even a single bite.

"I have no desire to stay here any longer," she tells her husband who is as quiet when he eats as he is unshakeable by complaints. The maid listens in, forgetting to be offended by the lady's lack of appetite.

"I thought it was your wish to get away," he comments, expecting compliance rather than a change of address.

"Yet there are things," she replies, "from which we cannot run."

He remains silent. They are not the same ghosts that walk the capital and Jutland's barren fields, but they haunt in a much similar manner.