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building that stood on the edge of the reeking seafront, belching
steam. One might have thought upon crossing its threshold that one was entering a kind of hot-air Hell, for as far as the
eye could see were clusters of women in white, busying themselves like frenzied brides over foaming cauldrons, or staggering
beneath the weight of stacked, bleached linen-bales, or lifting heavy steam-irons from the blazing fireplace & then losing
themselves in clouds of vapour.
    I asked a silver-haired waif who stood at the door – male or female I could not tell – where I might find the Mistress of
Ironing, & it pointed to a high balcony upon which stood a dark-clad figure surveying the vast hall. Every now & then she
would reach for a small trumpet-shaped device into which she would yell an order, & one of the women would look up, nod &
then perform whatever special steamy task that she was bid. I mounted the spiral cast-iron staircase & found myself alongside
Gudrun Olsen. So imposing she had appeared from below, but how tiny when you stood next to her! I am no large creature myself,
but beside me she was a veritable flea.
    â€˜What brings you here, young woman?’ She asked the question kindly enough but with an imposing authority for one so diminutive,
barely turning her neat profile, & not taking her eyes off what was happening below. She looked to be in her late thirties
or early forties, with a handsome nose & chin. ‘Are you seeking work?’
    â€˜No,’ I answered, ‘for I already have it, cleaning on Rosenvængets Allé, in the home of Fru Krak.’
    At the mention of this name, the whole of Frøken Olsen’s small body stiffened. She said nothing for a moment, then pivoted around to look at me, thus revealing the other
side of her face – the sudden sight of which immediately made me gasp, for across it a huge red scar was raggedly drawn, beginning
at the outer corner of her left eye & reaching to the contour of her upper lip, marring what was otherwise (& only now could
I see it) a quite beautiful face, open & pure. What tragic mutilation!
    â€˜I knew it would only be a matter of time before someone came to me & asked about the Kraks,’ she said. ‘But who would have
thought it would be a friend of dear Else’s?’ A weary sadness clouded her voice.
    â€˜Tell me, if you would: what did you make of the Professor?’ I asked. ‘For now that I am working in that mansion, I confess
to finding myself most intrigued to discover what manner of man he was, & what became of him.’
    To my surprise, Gudrun Olsen smiled fondly. ‘Where does one begin, when speaking of Professor Krak? Unlike his wife, he was
a person of great enthusiasm & charm,’ she said. ‘Though I often believed him to be quite unhinged. If ever I met a man too
clever for his own good, it was he. But I was attached to him, & when he disappeared I missed him greatly, despite what happened
to me there. Despite …’ she fingered her scar ‘despite this.’
    I drew in a breath. ‘I do not speak of my accident,’ she said warningly. ‘For I bear a measure of guilt – excruciating guilt
over what happened. But I have to warn you, Charlotte, that you are risking your life working in that place. No good will
come of it. And nor I think do you want your pretty face ruined, as mine was.’
    A shudder ran the length of my spine as I eyed her dreadful scar.
    â€˜By Fru Krak?’ I whispered, aghast. My mind was in a whizzy: yes, Fru Krak had a whiff of madness about her, to be sure. But
the thought of her lungeing at another woman’s cheek with a ragged blade ... it beggared belief that she might muster the energy.
    Finally, as if guessing my train of thought, Gudrun Olsen gave a small smile & shook her head. ‘Fru Krak is a lazy, vain fool,
& as unpleasant a human specimen as you could wish to meet. But she is not the danger in