I walk to the man whom I had impressed with my sneeze.
“Do you know who lives here?” I ask without introduction—our exchange had been enough.
“In this house? I’d feel bad telling you.”
“Why?”
“Seeing you on those pelts, you have a mean swing. I’m afraid of what you might do to him.”
A wicked grin tugs at my lips, but I suppress it fast.
“Please tell me.” I round my eyes, lifting my eyebrows slightly. The innocent face no man can resist.
“Why, it’s your best friend—our poetic champion. Ari the Skald.”
CHAPTER 15
So many actions in a day. After breakfast, beating the pelts, after the pelts, cleaning the pots, after the pots, scrubbing the floor. My joints ache. I’ve never worked so hard in my life. Having scrubbed the floor, I am now heading out to weed the blackcurrant bushes. My last task before lunch.
As a traveler, my duties were my own. Other than supporting my father and some rare communal tasks, I was free to spend my time as I wished. Now, from dawn to dusk. Work. Just work.
The sun hides behind a layer of clouds, giving a moment of respite. White light shines everywhere, and there is power in the air, tension, a wind blowing in all directions. It can’t decide where it’s headed.
Runes are used to communicate language. Sounds. But any Volva will tell you, when combined with intent, they can be a blessing or a curse. It seems I’m not the only one with ill feelingsfor Ari. Only Freya knows how many young girls he has left in his wake, brokenhearted and alone, used and abandoned. Round with child, most probably.
My heart jumps as two little shapes whoosh past me, one on each side. Their shrieks scatter my thoughts like startled crows. They turn, each face painted with a grin.
“Kilda!” they shout in unison.
“Good day, ladies.”
“Where are you going?” asks Ragnhild.
“Yeah, where?” demands the younger sister.
“The blackcurrant bushes,” I respond with a smile. Such a vivid energy in these children. Their faces already exude power and confidence. They truly take after their mother, from their lush hair to their darker voices. Ragnhild has a flame in her eye that might end up burning down forests. Or hearts.
“Can we come? We’ve already done our chores today.”
“Of course,” I reply, happy to get some company.
They run ahead, carrying with them the eagerness of youth.
“Come on, Kilda!” shouts Ragnhild.
My grin grows. Fine. Like children, I also love using my body. Raising the front of my dress, I sprint to catch up to the girls. Snickering at the madness of it, I relish the wind buffeting my face. Adults don’t run for no reason, yet it feels good. When do we lose the spark of pleasure? The fascination of texture, of shape, of life. Adults don’t run for no reason, but Ragnhild does. And now, Kilda does too.
I burst past the two of them, first Gunnhild, then Ragnhild.
“Wohooo!” shouts Ragnhild as I face them. She has her fists over her head, clearly impressed at my speed. I guess I am pretty fast, for wearing a dress, at least.
“Not fair!” shouts Gunnhild as she arrives last, pouting. The child doesn’t like to lose a race. Who does?
“Your legs will grow, my dear,” I say. “One day you will outrun me.”
Her face lights up, easy to convince. My knees hit the ground and I start ripping weeds from the earth around the bushes. Blackcurrants are notoriously tough—they can handle other plants in their space, but keeping the area clear allows for a greater harvest.
“Are you helping?” I ask the girls with a crooked smile.
