“An arrow to my heart,” he says, clutching his chest. I step closer, voice low so his mother doesn’t hear.
“Maybe we could meet up tonight? In the woods?” I say, deliberately sly.
His smile stays, but there is a glint of sadness beneath it. A practiced mask. Am I just using him? Hurting him more than he lets me see?
“I’m eager to serve the goddess of beauty,” he replies hoarsely. “I’ll be here.”
I punch his shoulder, unsure whether he is teasing or giving a compliment.
“Stop!” I say with a giggle. “I’ll see you later then.”
The sun is high, the wind is warm, the birds and bees are playful.
CHAPTER 3
Drying herbs fill the air with their scent—yarrow, and something sharper, maybe juniper—distracting me from my teacher’s words. Or maybe it’s the dagger hidden beneath my dress. Groa snaps her fingers.
“A ritual isn’t enough,” says the older woman. “You need to give the energy direction,purpose. You need to know where it’s from and where it’s headed.”
I sit in her pillowed carriage. It’s full of lockboxes and amulets. Pendants dangle on the walls—triskelions with ravens, horses, snakes. Whatever enchantment someone needs, Groa supplies. Myself? That’s another story.
“I know,” I say. Enchanting a simple piece of bone is easier said than done. “Maybe I can’t?—”
“Stop denying yourself,” Groa interrupts. “You can. I knew it when you had only tasted five summers.”
“I know, but I?—”
“Now, with your twenty summers, you are bigger, but not much wiser,” she laughs. “Stop talking about what you know and open up towhat you don’t.”
A candle is wedged in the board between us, its dancing light highlighting the Volva’s wrinkles. Next to Groa, I am a silly girl, a cocky child who needs her hand held.
“Forgive me.”
“No need. Hubris is the privilege of youth. Try again.”
I’ve always been grateful for Groa’s wisdom. Without a mother, where does a girl learn to be a woman? Groa practically adopted me, teaching me about the heavens. Gods and stars, destiny. Beneath them—plants, animals, and… men. I doubt my father could have given good advice when my bleeding arrived.
Since my eighteenth summer, she’s trained me as a Volva. I was honored. I am honored. Yet it’s hard. Seidr, the feminine magic, is elusive,treacherous.
Groa has told me of women going mad, losing speech, ripping at their own hair. Cursed to wander the woods alone. They had no guidance. I have Groa.
My hands hover over the talisman. How many times have I cursed, failing to manifest some simple enchantment or spell? Groa calls me impatient or optimistic—depending on her mood.
“Freya, grant me pow?—”
“Don’t speak, girl, you’ve already asked Freya for help today.”
“I just?—”
“Your prayer won’t lift the veil. Do it in silence.”
A sour flower blooms in my stomach. I respect Groa, love her, but she can be a real pain. Deep breaths to empty my mind. Just a puny spell is so hard… imagine cursing, far-sight, or shapeshifting. Will I ever stand a chance?
Time to focus. A simple warding spell, to keep the evil eye at bay. A neighbor’s envious gaze might just trip up a horse,or make a soup spill. Even such small misfortunes can lead to disaster.
“Stop thinking, Kilda,” snaps Groa.
How in Hel’s kingdom does she know?
