Stanley insisted on throwing a small Valentine’s party in honor of their postponed wedding date. He cooked live lobsters, my mom’s request, in a pot so big that on stilts it’d make a decent water tower. There were only five of us: my mom, Stanley, Afi, Jack, and me, but it was nice to have a little diversion from the winter blahs.

“Everything was delicious,” my mom said, placing her napkin to the side of the plate. “Thank you.”

“And you’re feeling all right?” Stanley asked. Though my mom had assured him, repeatedly, that her doctor encouraged an hour or two of low-key, around-the-house movement, he was still a nervous ninny.

“I’m good for a little while longer,” my mom replied. “Besides, we haven’t had the dessert yet. Kat, would you bring the cake over?”

The cake was carrot with cream cheese frosting and white chocolate shavings. Stanley had a sweet tooth, something I’d come to appreciate, given my mom’s pregnancy-related salt cravings. I placed the cake in the center of the table and sliced into it with a large knife. Afi got the first piece, and then my mom.

“You haven’t updated us on your trip,” my mom said to Stanley.

I handed out plates.

“I didn’t realize what a trek it would be,” Stanley said.

“We have to fly into Iceland,” Jack said. “From their international airport we’ll transfer to a regional airport in Reykjavik, where we’ll take a flight to Akureyri, and from there a charter flight to Greenland.”

“Into Akureyri?” Afi asked.

“Yep,” Jack said, excitement lacing through his voice. I hadn’t heard him this jazzed in weeks. “We’ll arrive in Daneborg, Greenland, and from there we’ll travel to the Klarksberg Research Station.” Jack paused and glanced around the table. “By dogsled.”

“Dogsled!” I said.

“Into Akureyri?” Afi repeated, clearly missing the connecting flight our conversation had taken. “That’s not far from my hometown.”

“Stanley, you didn’t tell me anything about dogsleds,” my mom said. “This sounds dangerous.”

If not dangerous, at least archaic. And if the Ice Road Truckers could haul those abominable monster trucks over a frozen tundra, then why wasn’t there some sort of bus service, or snow mobiles? Or how about that Polar Express?

“No. Not dangerous at all,” Stanley said. “We’ll be part of a large team, and escorted by members of an elite patrol.”

“Brigid does it every year,” Jack said. “She has assured us it’s just a single day’s journey. She herself has done far more intensive treks, clear north to the Greenland Sea.”

My chin jutted forward at the mention of Brigid, particularly as it was yet another of her many fantastic — or was it fantastical? — life experiences. Plus, Jack had that all-too-familiar moony look, the one that, conversely, launched me into a sour mood.

“When do I leave for Akureyri?” Afi asked.

“Afi.” I put my fork down. “Jack and Stanley are going to Greenland. They’re only flying through Iceland.”

“But when?” Afi asked.

“We leave at the end of March,” Stanley said.

“The timing is perfect,” Afi said.

“Perfect for what, Dad?” my mom asked, her voice thin with concern.

“For the festival, the Dance of the Selkies. Takes place in Hafmeyjafjörður, my hometown, on April first every year.”

“They won’t have time for sightseeing,” my mom said. “They’re going on a research mission.”

“Who said anything about bringing them?”

“I don’t understand.” My mom pushed her dessert plate away from her. “Who are we talking about?”

“Me, of course,” Afi said.

“Dad, you’re not going to Iceland,” my mom said, as if this were the part of his announcement that was odd.

“Afi, did you say Dance of the Selkies?” I asked.

“Yes, I did.”

“Selkies?” I repeated.

“Yep.”

“Aren’t those . . . ?”

“Magical creatures who once a year discard their seal pelts and take human form to dance by a silver moon.”

“So, it’s an old folklore the town celebrates?” asked the human Stork. As much as I had a new appreciation for fairy tales and the weird and wacky — discarding their seal skins and dancing? You didn’t see me sprouting feathers and putting on an air show. Besides, it seemed like the sort of thing a mythical creature wouldn’t want to publicize, never mind preschedule. I’d come to understand the advantage secrecy had over exposure to some of life’s more mystical aspects.

“You must have some wonderful memories of those celebrations,” my mom said, her face looking pale.

“What times we had,” Afi said. “Feasts, and parades, and a dance in the festival hall.” He pushed his chair back with a loud scrape. “I’m booking my flight in the morning.” With that, he pulled his nubby old lopi sweater over his head, said his good nights, and headed out to his car with more giddyup in his gait than I’d seen in weeks.

Stanley assisted my mom up the stairs and back to bed, or as I had come to call it, command central. Jack helped me with the dishes.

“You think your afi is serious?” he asked, gingerly lifting a lobster shell by its tail and dropping it into the garbage.

“Nah. He probably just got excited by all your travel talk.” Which reminded me. “And by the way, dogsleds? Doesn’t that sound a little primitive? Not to mention bumpy.”

“Where we’re going is remote. That early in the spring and that far north, snow is a certainty. Sleds really are the best way to travel. Plus, what an experience. I’ll be above the Arctic Circle. What an opportunity. For me. For my —”

“Your what?” Even though it hadn’t come up again, I hadn’t forgotten his New Year’s resolution.

“My particular skill set.”

“What about it?”

“To understand it better. To make proper use of it, or —”

“Or what?” I dropped a plate into the dishwasher. “Jack, please tell me you’re going for research. Research only.”

I heard Stanley’s heavy steps coming down the stairs.

“Of course,” Jack said, hunching his shoulders in innocence.

A few minutes later, he and Stanley headed into the thick chill of the February night, leaving me with the rest of the dishes and a lot of questions.

Later, after finishing an English assignment, I pulled out the Thomas book, as I had for two weeks straight. It was a gesture, a get-to-know-you period. It wasn’t my taste in literature, wouldn’t have been even when I was five. I myself had always gone for the gowned princess stories. And don’t even get me started on what an impression the scene from Cinderella where the mice and birds embellish her old dress with beads and a sash had on me. Even back then I was a sucker for the swish of a skirt and a puffed sleeve. Thomas and his train-yard pranks were silly and a little repetitive, but I tried really hard not to let my voice reflect this boredom. I read two long stories that night, my voice high and clear, smiling even as I closed the book with an affected sigh. Nothing. I made a clicking sound with my tongue, wondering why the book wasn’t working. I looked around my room. I loved my room. Dusty-pink walls, a vintage purple duvet, an ivory-painted, scrolled woodwork vanity, a dress form with a half-finished cape and matching skirt, and a huge corkboard with design ideas pinned every which way. It was my space and reflected my own personal style. But maybe that was the problem.