Page 165 of The Ampersand Effect

Salka cooked and baked with an artistry that nourished Tobin’s soul as much as her stomach. They used meats and techniques either rare or nonexistent in the U.S., and Tobin’s palate expanded with each savory serving. She always brought the recipes home and hosted a night of culinary re-creation for Harrow, Eddie, LoLo, and anyone else with an adventurous palate.

“We’re having an early autumn this year. Rain is forecasted this week—good for your training, bad for your disposition.” Salka kept them on task. “We’ll makeKjötsúpato warm your body and your spirits afterward. I thought you might want to join me at the market, to learn how we select the lamb cuts and vegetables for the soup. Everything should be available backhome, but selecting the right ingredients is something you learn in person.”

She narrowed her eyes at Tobin, which she took to mean she didn’t really have a choice in the matter—she would be escorting Salka to the market today.

“I’d love to go to the market with you! Mind if I shower first?”

Salka nodded silently, and Tobin rose to grab her bag and carry it to the cozy guest room she always stayed in when visiting their home.

The shower was a welcome relief. The steamy heat soothed the lingering aches from her travels and softened the stiffness that inevitably followed an overseas flight. She let the geothermal water— sourced from the country’s abundance of underground springs— invigorate her body and, blissfully, quiet her mind for the first time in days. As she stepped out and towel-dried her hair, it occurred to her that they should plan an evening at one of the local lagoon spas. She made a mental note to suggest it to Njáll later.

When she finally emerged from her room, she wore a pair of dark denim jeggings, a plain black V-neck T-shirt, and her beloved, worn zippy. As she stepped into the kitchen, six pairs of eyes turned to greet her—each one brimming with anticipation.

“Did something happen?” she asked nervously, her gaze darting between faces around the table.

She watched as Njáll’s expression softened with compassion, while Dagný’s evolved into excitement. Salka, ever the matriarch, appeared to fight her emotions with stoicism.

Dagný spoke first. “No—but something is about to.” She tipped her head toward Salka, drawing Tobin’s attention to a small, tissue- wrapped package resting in the older woman’s lap.

Tobin furrowed her brows in confusion.

“You know those changes I mentioned making to your tattoo?” Dagný said, her tone tinged with anticipation. “Well… it’s because there’s a story that goes with it.”

Tobin stood motionless, staring at the people who had welcomed her into their hearts and home without condition. Something big was about to happen—she could feel it thrumming in the room, an undercurrent of excited energy that buzzed just beneath the surface.

Salka moved to unwrap the tissue paper bundle in her lap. From it, she withdrew a small jar and handed it carefully to Dagný.

Dagný smiled as she accepted it, her eyes already threatening with tears. “This is the ink we’ll be using,” she said softly. “I’ve mixed in a small amount of volcanic ash from the lava rocks we collected together near the Mount Fagradalsfjal eruption site—when you were here last year.” Her voice wavered, but she pressed on. “Now, the ink will let you carry a part of Iceland with you always.”

She paused, her voice cracking. “So you know you’ll always have a home—and a family—here for you.”

The revelation hit her hard, behind her sternum. Her eyes moistened as the weight of their unbridled love settled into her, fierce and unexpected. These people—this family—were binding her to them through ash and art, through the bonds of ink and fire. Her body warmed at the honor, the symbolism pressing into her bones.

Tears welled and spilled freely down her cheeks, and she did nothing to stop them. There was something sacred in tears shed for love. This was catharsis. This was love.

Salka then unwrapped the final part of her gift, and raised both hands as a traditional Icelandic lopapeysa unfolded across her chest. It’s bold palette of blacks, grays, and whites was astriking display of their culture. A narrow band of gray-blue peaked and valleyed across the center in a rhythmic pattern.

Tobin recognized it instantly. She’d seen it countless times over the years—the design that adorned the majority of the family’s ownlopis.

“This pattern,” Salka said, voice trembling, “the one Dagný will be tattooing on you, is our traditional family faire isle pattern, handed down over generations.” Her eyes shimmered with emotion, and fresh tears gathered. “Each line marks a new generation— warriors, fishermen, herders and so on. The triangles represent our land: the mountains, glaciers, and volcanic fields. The blue is our water— pure and rich with mineral, a source of healing and an abundance of health.”

She glanced down at the sweater in her hands, then back at Tobin. “I made this for you. Both to remind you that you have family here, and also to encourage you to take us with you, to carry the values of Iceland wherever you are.”

Tobin moved before her mind registered the need. She rushed toward the three of them, encircling Salka in her arms as both Dagný and Njáll added their bodies to the mix.

She didn’t care that her face was a mess of tears and flushed skin. There were no words to express how deeply the gratitude bloomed inside her in this moment.

She managed a hoarse, trembling, “Thank you,” before another wave of teary gratitude overtook her. She sobbed openly, her breath interjecting in happy hiccups through the chorus of quieter gasps. The sound of belonging.

“Pull up, pull up!” Njáll barked into their headsets.

They were hovering about ten feet off the ground—if it could be called that. The helicopter floated precariously at the base of an ice-covered volcano, right on the edge of a jagged cliff that dropped into the frigid ocean two hundred yards below.

They were practicing some of the landing maneuvers that had brought Tobin to the course this year. And she was havingwaytoo much fun failing at it.

She was a skilled pilot, confident even on uneven or unpracticed terrain. But ice? That was a whole new adventure.

The chopper’s skids were designed to grip the ground—but sometimes there was simply no accounting for the effects of gravity, wind, and rotor speed. Every time Tobin tried to touch down, she felt the instability of the ice beneath her bird, threatening to slide her right into the ocean if she didn’t pull back up. Quickly.