Page 1 of First Snow

Prologue

Arttu

Themidsummersunispainting lazy patterns on the beach, and the gentle lapping of the waves on the lakeshore is making Arttu sleepy. He takes a sip from his beer and squints up at the canopy of leaves swaying gently in the wind. TheJuhannusparty has moved further down the beach where the summer house of the Laine family and the sauna are located. Sofia and Mikael call it amökki,which is just ridiculous given it’s more of a lakeside villa than a cabin in the woods.

Heavy metal and laughter drift in Arttu’s direction from time to time as the wind shifts. Pekka has set up a barbeque and the smell of burnt sausages hits Arttu’s nose. The whole scene is achingly familiar; still, Arttu feels out of place. He has known Pekka, Sofia, and Mikael since school. They used to have a great time playing in a band together, which Pekka dreams of reuniting still. But their missing members, Varpu and Elias, haven’t been to theirJuhannusparties in years, driven away by time and family responsibilities. Then there’s Mikael’s ego and his increasing retinue of posh friends. He would have someone grilling lobster by now, if Pekka hadn’t insistedhebe the designated master of the barbeque.

Arttu sighs. He wouldn’t have come either, if Sofia and Pekka hadn’t begged him to. He usually prefers to pretend that this part of his childhood and youth doesn’t exist.

Light footsteps approach, and Arttu shifts to look at the newcomer. Sofia enters his line of sight, her black shorts and band t-shirt a stark contrast to the bouquet of pastel summer flowers she has picked. She flops down on the blanket next to Arttu.

“Taking a nap?”

Arttu only hums in response. The exhaustion he feels goes way deeper than any physical tiredness.

Sofia plucks the half-empty beer bottle from his limp grasp and takes a swig.

“I’m so glad you came. Mikael’s friends are such a pain in the ass.”

Arttu refrains from pointing out that Pekka and Sofia could easily celebrate elsewhere, or invite more of their own friends. No one’s forcing them to spend their holidays with Sofia’s younger brother and his entourage.

“Mikael’s taste in friends isn’t getting any better, huh?” Arttu says instead. They all love the youngest member of their close-knit circle of friends. But it’s difficult for Arttu to see the cheerful boy he used to know like this; a pale man wearing designer clothes and a perpetual scowl.

Sofia purses her lips in distaste.

“It’s getting worse every year.” She sighs.

“I’d say it’s his line of work if you weren’t in it too,” Arttu chuckles. Sofia and Mikael have taken over the family’s successful antiques business. Sofia is head of the finance department and Mikael takes care of the auctions and purchases.

Sofia snorts. “Believe me, it’s not our business.”

“It’s a good thing that at least Pekka has fun partying under any circumstances,” Arttu says, looking at the imposing man, dancing sillily to the music while turning sausages.

“Yeah, I’m glad he doesn’t mind,” Sofia says. She’s trapped between different worlds too, with a well-off family on the one side, and an enthusiastic but not overly successful musician as a husband on the other. Arttu is glad that his friends make their marriage work regardless. Sofia takes another swig of Arttu’s beer.

“I could arrest you for theft, you know?”

Sofia grins. “I trade you my flowers for your stale beer. Seven blossoms to dream of your future spouse.”

“Fuck off,” Arttu grumbles, but he doesn’t stop her when she shoves the flowers under his makeshift pillow.

Sofia drops onto her back next to him, and they look up at the sky in silence. It’s almost like the old days when they were teenagers, and Arttu can pretend that growing up didn’t change them all beyond recognition.

Arttu yawns.

Sofia pulls out her mobile. “You look tired. Why don’t you nap for a few minutes? I’ll wake you as soon as Pekka is done burning the sausages.”

Arttu hums an affirmative, his eyes already drifting shut. It doesn’t take long till he falls into a fitful sleep.

He wanders through the labyrinthine halls of a castle. Or maybe it’s a huge mansion. A feeling of being watched makes his neck prickle. It’s disconcerting, but not entirely unpleasant. The smell of food and the sound of soft music lure Arttu deeper down the corridors.

He wonders briefly why he’s barefoot and only wearing a silky bathrobe—not his own. It smells of cherry blossoms and something earthy Arttu can’t quite place. The fabric feels nice on his skin.

With a blink, the scenery shifts and Arttu finds himself in the doorway of a large kitchen. The style reminds him of the posh country house his father used to reside in during summer. But, strangely, the sight doesn’t put him off. Instead, he’s drawn in by the tall figure standing at the counter. He has the impression of eyes flashing gold-green and a sharp-toothed grin. Arttu gravitates helplessly towards him.

Another blink and he finds himself pressed against the polished wood of the counter, the dark stranger plastered all over his back, his warmth surrounding Arttu.

“I didn’t know you cooked,” a deep voice purrs into his ear.