“A lying, sneaking thief,” expands the older one, pretending to sneak around me. I laugh at her display.
“You look rather sneaky yourself,” I say. The girl snickers. “Who is your mamma then?”
“Thyra,” answers the older girl. The younger one nods. “I’m Ragnhild. This is Gunnhild,” she says, pointing a thumb at her little sister. “The jarl is our grandpa.”
The thick blonde hair, the downward slope on the edge of their eyes—I should have guessed they were Thyra’s daughters.
“Who is your papa then?”
“He’s in Valhalla,” says Ragnhild. “He died in a great battle. But he killed many!”
That explains a lot. Thyra is grieving a dead lover. No wonder she’s so cold and unforgiving. Empathy blooms for the condescending jarl’s daughter.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be,” the older one says. “Mamma says he drinks with Odin.”
“Indeed, he does,” I reply.
Both girls smile at my response. I’d watched children when their parents were busy. It always fascinates me how they mimic adults—testing sentences and behaviors, satisfied when they are taken seriously.
A man’s voice behind me.
“What mysteries are such beautiful ladies talking about?”
“Uncle Vidar!” both the girls shout, running and colliding into his legs. He laughs, ruffling their hair. They love him. I can’t stop myself from smiling.
“I hope these little trolls aren’t bothering you, Kilda,” he says.
Our eyes meet. He seems sincere, boyish grin wide. Are all slaves treated this well on this farm?
“They are friendly little trolls,” I respond.
My pulse jumps. Even with his smile, he carries the same force that dragged me to my knees yesterday. Now, he looks harmless. Who is he behind that charm and muscle?
“Hey!” says Ragnhild. “We’re Aesir!”
“Yeah, Aesir!” confirms Gunnhild.
“Very good,” says Vidar.
“You know Kilda?” asks Ragnhild, leaning against her uncle’s body like he’s a wall.
“Know her? I bought her!”
“Wow! Nice.”
“Indeed, do you know what I call her?”
I roll my eyes. Here comes some insult about my thrall status. Some dehumanizing joke.
“Tell us!” shouts little Gunnhild.
“Kilda the Bull!” he says laughing. I laugh myself. What a silly man. Kilda the Bull, I had completely forgotten. Not as bad as I had anticipated.
“Why? Why?” the children shout, stretching their arms up his giant frame. He cups a hand to his mouth, leaning close to his nieces.
“She has balls like a bull,” he says with a grin in his beard. The girls giggle.
