It was foolish, it was wrong, to take so active a part in bringing any two people together. -- Jane Austen, Emma

What could possibly go wrong? she'd thought. She could answer that question now. In great detail, too.

To start with, Rigmor was nowhere to be found. Solvej had no experience of matchmaking, but she knew that matchmaking required two people to meet and interact. It was hard to interact with anyone when you never met them.

Solvej considered the problem over and over again. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get past that obstacle. So, she could do nothing but wait until Rigmor deigned to make an appearance.

Days passed slowly. Time, which normally seemed to fly, slowed to a crawl. Solvej spent her days dreaming up possible ways to make Hjalmar meet and fall in love with the Princess. Then, at last, Rigmor reappeared, and all Solvej's plans were thrown for a loop.

~~~~

The first Hjalmar knew of Rigmor's return was when he walked into the shop one morning to find Merethe behind the counter.

"Good morning," he said politely.

"Good morning," she replied.

This exchange of courtesies over, they went about their jobs as they had done every other day of working together. Merethe seemed unaware of Hjalmar's presence, and Hjalmar noticed her only if she did something odd.

Hjalmar was in the middle of unpacking a selection of astronomy textbooks when Merethe did something very odd indeed. She rounded a bookshelf at a run, jumped over the box filled with textbooks, and dived behind another bookshelf before Hjalmar could do more than stare in astonishment.

"What on Earth?" he began, amazed.

"I'm not here!" Merethe hissed at him from behind the bookshelf.

Wondering if his coworker had gone mad, Hjalmar got up and looked around the main store for anything that could have caused such extraordinary behaviour. He saw nothing more unusual than Mr. Ovessen chatting with Eigil Nissen, a policeman who often stopped by to discuss the results of some football match or other. Hjalmar withdrew, greatly puzzled. Then it struck him.

Merethe ran away when a policeman was in the shop. And now that he thought of it, he couldn't remember ever seeing her in the shop at the same time as Mr. Nissen.

There was some mystery here. So he took a leaf out of Solvej's book, pretended there was no such word as "tact" in the dictionary, and confronted Merethe without a minute's delay.

"Why are you hiding from the police?"

"I'm not!" Merethe denied at once.

Her denial would have been more convincing if she weren't crouching behind a shelf and speaking in a whisper. Hjalmar raised an eyebrow and folded his arms, doing his best impression of his mother's "you're up to something and I won't go away until I know what" look.

Merethe seemed to realise he wouldn't let this drop. She continued unwillingly, "I'm hiding from anyone who might recognise me."

"Anyone who might recognise you," Hjalmar repeated flatly. "What did you do? Rob a bank?"

"None of your business!" Merethe snapped.

"If I'm going to be arrested on suspicion of associating with a criminal, then yes, it is my business!"

Merethe gave him a look that made him feel about three inches tall. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm not a criminal and no one will be arrested."

"Then why are you afraid the police will recognise you?" Hjalmar demanded, feeling increasingly frustrated.

"Sshh!" Merethe hissed, holding a finger to her lips and looking around nervously.

"Why are you afraid the police will recognise you?" Hjalmar repeated, more quietly.

"Because my parents want to find me," Merethe said in a matter-of-fact, isn't-it-obvious? tone.

Hjalmar blinked, taken aback. An uncomfortable sense that he'd been extremely foolish wormed its way into his mind. He'd been picturing all sorts of Merethe had committed, and it turned out she was nothing worse than a runaway. Let that teach him not to jump to conclusions.

"I see," he said sheepishly.

Now that he knew no crime had been committed, the circumstances that had led to Merethe's hiding from the police were none of his business. She was old enough to make her own decisions on leaving home.

Hjalmar went back to unpacking the textbooks, resolved to forget this ever happened.

~~~~

The next event that led to a conversation between him and Merethe was just as unromantic, and caused a great deal of irritation for everyone involved. A short, fat, decidedly overdressed woman walked into the shop one day. She brought with her a small, fat dog and a strong smell of perfume that made Hjalmar cough and Merethe sneeze.

"Good morrrning!" she boomed in a strident voice, drawing out her "r"s in a way that could only be affected. The dog nestled in her arms nibbled at the strap of her handbag. Her hat, festooned with ribbons, imitation feathers and fabric flowers, wobbled precariously on her head.

"May I help you?" Hjalmar asked politely, deciding the most tactful thing would be to ignore dog, hat and perfume.

"Have you any back issues of the magazine What The Well-Dressed Woman Wears?"

Hjalmar glanced at Merethe. She looked as baffled as he felt.

"I'll have a look," he told the customer. "Wait here, please."

Merethe followed him to the storeroom. "Do we stock that magazine? I've never heard of it."

"Neither have I," said Hjalmar, digging through the collection of old, unsold magazines. "You look through that pile over there, and I'll check this one."

They moved quickly, picking up and tossing aside magazines with no regard for tidiness. The knowledge that the customer awaiting their return lent an almost feverish haste to their search. At last they gave up.

"I'm sorry," Hjalmar told the lady when he returned to the counter. "We don't stock that magazine."

The lady looked so disappointed that Hjalmar felt almost as if it was a moral failing on Mr. Ovesen's part not to sell What The Well-Dressed Woman Wears. "Would it be possible to order it? Any issue from last year will do, but I would especially like the September issue. You see, there is a pattern in it that I simply cannot live without."

You seem to be living quite well without it, Hjalmar thought with a glance at the lady's expensive clothes.

Aloud, he said, "I'll see what we can do, ma'am."

When the lady was gone, Hjalmar and Merethe looked at each other. As one they burst out laughing.

"Did you see her hat?" Hjalmar gasped.

"And her dog." Merethe shook her head in a 'can-you-believe-it' way. "No wonder she carries that poor creature about. It's too fat to walk."

The memory of what the lady wanted sobered Hjalmar a bit. "I wonder what Mr. Ovesen will say when we tell him about this. He'll feel he has to order all last year's issues, and he'll be grumbling about the extra cost for weeks."

"How much do you think it will cost?" Merethe asked, looking mildly alarmed.

Hjalmar shrugged. "It depends on where the magazines come from, how many we can get, and how much each one costs. If one issue costs, say, two gauwir[1], and we order twelve issues, then that costs six elrelur without adding the costs of shipping."

"Six elrelur isn't expensive," Merethe protested, then paused. "Is it?"

Hjalmar stared at her. "Where have you been, if you think six elrelur isn't expensive? That's a whole week's pay!"

Merethe shifted her weight from foot to foot, looking everywhere except at him. "Well, it doesn't seem expensive to me."

Hjalmar gave up.

~~~~

Mr. Ovesen's reaction was exactly what Hjalmar feared.

"Why'd that blithering idiot have to come in here and demand her frippery fashion magazines? There's a newsagent over on Omord Alley that has a whole section dedicated to that sort of nonsense! Who's to pay for this, I'd like to know? Not her, I dare say!"

Hjalmar didn't point out that the lady would indeed have to pay for it if (or when) she got her magazines.

~~~~

The next day Hjalmar and Merethe greeted each other with a "Good morning!" that was said for more than simply to be polite. Apparently it was impossible to hunt through a dusty storeroom together without becoming almost friends -- or at least allies.

~~~~

Solvej, unfortunately unaware of certain recent developments, prepared to set her matchmaking plans in action. To do this, she first had to learn where Rigmor lived. And so, one evening she waited outside the bookshop under cover of the best invisibility spell she could manage.

Not for the first time, she wished ghosts really could turn invisible at will. Even her best invisibility spell couldn't completely hide her. She was still visible as a vague outline, which was why she stayed as far back in the shadows as possible as she waited for the princess to appear. The brick wall of the bookshop was hard against her shoulder-blades. The damp moss growing on the wall left a damp stain on the back of her dress. Solvej endured it with a grimace, not daring to move while the sun was still in the sky and so many people were still milling past her hiding place.

Minutes stretched to what felt like hours as she waited... and waited... and waited. Finally, finally, Rigmor deigned to make an appearance. She stepped out of the bookstore, a tall, thin girl in an ill-fitting grey dress, and set off down the street. Solvej followed. She kept to the shadows, dodging puddles and passersby.

Rigmor walked quickly, with the air of someone desperately trying to avoid notice. She kept her head down and rarely looked at anything but the ground. Solvej ground her teeth as she followed. If she kept this up, the runaway princess would be attract police attention as a suspicious character.

At last Rigmor turned off the main street and down a narrow side lane. There was a flight of stairs leading up to a door on the third floor of the first house on the right hand side of the lane. Rigmor climbed these, took a key out of her pocket and unlocked the door, and went in. Solvej stayed down in the street below. She took careful note of the number of the house and the name of the street -- 13 Aesvic Lane -- before turning and going home.

Now, all she needed to do was find some reason for Hjalmar to go to 13 Aesvic Lane.

~~~~

Hjalmar came home from work the next day to find a letter from his mother awaiting him. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw it was still sealed. He didn't think Solvej would stoop to reading his letters, but she was a ghost curious about everyone and everything.

Dear Hjalmar, it began,

I was delighted to hear from you. I was beginning to think there was something wrong. Did you say you'd write every week, or is my memory playing tricks on me?

Hjalmar winced. He had indeed promised that, and promptly forgotten about it.

He read on, learning of his mother's decision to sell some of her home-made jams to the local grocery store; his sister Mathilde's engagement to a tailor; the latest gossip about everyone he once knew; the story of how a flock of sheep got into the church in the middle of a wedding and ruined the day for everyone; and similar bits of news.

Finally he came to his mother's reply to his questions about Merethe.

Of course you aren't in love, Hal. Hal was a nickname his sisters had given him when he was younger, and his family still used it when teasing him. No one could ever think that after reading the epistle you sent me, all about this girl!

"Sarcasm isn't helpful, Mother." Hjalmar sighed, resigning himself to being teased mercilessly about this in the future.

As for her odd behaviour, I can't see how it's any of your business. But if it bothers you, have you tried asking her about it?

"That wouldn't be at all embarrassing," Hjalmar said dryly. "I'd just walk up to her and say, 'Hello, how are you today, by the way I've noticed you act strangely at times, could you explain why?' Anyway, I know now why she acts strangely."

Try to write more frequently in future. I worry about you, all alone in that big city.

Hjalmar couldn't suppress a snort at 'all alone'. "Does a ghost living next door count as being alone?"

"I don't know; does it?"

He started violently at Solvej's voice. "Don't scare me like that!"

"All right then," Solvej said agreeably, sitting in one of his armchairs and propping her feet up on the coffee table. "I'll remember to scare you in some other way next time. Who were you talking to?"

"No one."

She wagged a finger at him reprovingly. "Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness, you know."

A comment on how he had frequently seen her talking to herself formed in his mind. Since he didn't want a quarrel, he decided against voicing it.

"Did you see Merethe today?" Solvej was saying.

"Yes. Why do you keep asking me that?"

Solvej shrugged. "She seems a nice girl."

"How can you know? You've never spoken to her."

At least, he didn't think she'd ever spoken to her. Solvej had never shown any great desire to speak to mere mortals -- other than him, of course.

"No, but you've told me enough about her."

"Solvej."

"What?"

"Are you trying to play matchmaker?"

"Of course not." The ghost's steadfast refusal to look at him didn't quite put the lie to that statement, but it certainly made its truthfulness dubious at best.

"Solvej--" Hjalmar was about to use her surname to drive home that he was serious, dammit, but abruptly halted when he remembered he didn't know her surname. He coughed awkwardly to cover his slip, then continued. "I want this understood once and for all. I do not want or need a matchmaker. Not now, not next week, not ever. If I ever fall in love--"

Solvej perked up at this and opened her mouth to say something.

Before she could speak he hurriedly continued. "Note I said if -- I will propose to the girl in question on my own, without anyone's help."

"Of course you will," Solvej agreed.

There was nary a hint of sarcasm in her tone. That fact somehow made her comment more sarcastic. Hjalmar gave up in despair.

"Do you know any spells that can magically transport a shipment of magazines here overnight?" he asked instead.

Solvej's brow furrowed in understandable puzzlement. "I told you, teleportation is beyond my powers, whether it's teleporting a person or an object."

"So much for that idea."

~~~~

Meanwhile, down a dirty, narrow alleyway, Slaugh the goblin was rummaging through an overflowing rubbish bin.

"Nothing but old tins, chicken bones and mouldy lettuce," he was grumbling to himself. "Do the people here not throw out anything worth eating?"

Abandoning the bin, he slunk down the alleyway and round the corner. The street was deserted except for some drunken men having a disagreement outside a pub, so the goblin made no attempt to stay hidden as he scurried down the street and onto the road beyond.

"Hundreds of humans, but no food anywhere," he moaned. "I should've stayed in that little town. Isn't there a single juicy eel anywhere around here? Or even a sheep's eye?"

Still muttering to himself in his high-pitched, squeaky voice, Slaugh crept around the city streets all night long. He didn't know it, but every step took him closer to Aesvic Lane.

Chapter Footnotes:

[1] gauwir (singular gauwis) =  Pronounced "GOW-weer". The second smallest denomination of the Vardiholmish currency. A gauwis is roughly equivalent to twenty-five pence in modern English currency, or one florin in pre-decimalization English currency. One gauwis is made of four arder, and four gauwir make one elrel (plural elrelur).