Free The Seventh Child by Erik Valeur

me that the children were often given nicknames of famous people whom the nurses thought they resembled, such as the actor Ebbe Rode or the writer Poul Henningsen … at one point there was actually a black-haired girl they called Jackie … after Jacqueline Kennedy!” Knud chuckled briefly, as though the name of the former president’s widow was a particularly interesting detail. “There was also a bald baby called Khrushchev. Anyway, the naming was quite innocent, though once in a while it was rumored that this practice was more significant than simple likeness. And those rumors persisted during all the years she visited Kongslund.”
    They drove under the crowns of tall trees, the road gently curving away from the sound. Enormous mansions stood on each side of Skodsborg Strandvej, right up to the road.
    “My source in Mother’s Aid Society also mentioned something else … in 1966, the old matron adopted a child herself. Or rather, she kept an orphaned girl as her foster daughter. The girl was born the same year, 1961. Later, when she retired, the matron—Ms. Ladegaard—moved to an apartment in Skodsborg, but her foster daughter, who must now be in her late forties, remains at the orphanage.” He paused briefly.
    “Strange, don’t you think?”
    Nils didn’t think it particularly odd; he’d lived at home until his midtwenties. He signaled a right turn and angled the vehicle down a steep, winding gravel road and toward the water.
    At first they saw nothing, and Knud suspected they might have made a wrong turn. Then a dark shadow appeared between the trees, and they glimpsed the outline of the house. It rose up like the giant brown hull of a ship pitching on a sea of green beech trees. Seconds later they saw the seven white chimneys and a towerlike annex that faced south, and finally the whole villa.
    Nils braked, overwhelmed at the sight, and then cut the engine.
    For a moment both men sat motionless, silent. In a strange way the orphanage resembled an impenetrable fortress within the budding green, as unapproachable as an English country manor—not as big, perhaps, but with the same ceremonial aura emanating from every pillar, cornice, and turret.
    After a minute or so, Knud spoke, softly, as though he were seated in a movie theater and didn’t want to disturb those around him. “Look at that place, Nils. Fifty thousand Danes were once put up for adoption here, remember. This house was the beginning of their stories.”
    Breathing deeply, he opened the car door. Nils followed him.

    Though it was early May, Nils shivered. It was an unfamiliar and puzzling sensation. With his father he’d patrolled hundreds of backyards, and he was used to the darkness and the cold. Fear, his father had taught him, wasn’t something you brought into the bat’s domain.
    The surroundings—with the house under the shade of rich green foliage—were as idyllic as the magazine article depicted. Yet he felt at that moment that they were being watched; he turned slowly, glancing at the treetops, and heard Knud laugh at his obvious unease. In the midst of his laughter, Knud was seized with a fit of coughing, and he doubled over, a hand on each knee. For a few moments this hacking sound was all they heard.
    Only later did Nils recall (with a touch of embarrassment) what he thought he’d seen on the hill: a small figure that withdrew into the bushes before disappearing in the direction of an old white mansion nearby. An absurd thought, of course, clearly an optical illusion. That white house was obviously empty; even at a distance it looked decrepit. There were no curtains, no plants in the sills—no signs of life whatsoever. You can always tell the difference between an abandoned house and an inhabited one , he thought. His father had showed him that.
    Knud stood to his full height and spit in the gravel. A large black car was parked at the far end of the driveway, but Nils could easily make out the license plate, even at a