“Fine,” says Ragnhild as she joins me. Gunnhild, as always, copies her sister. The three of us pant as we tend the berries.
“So,” I say. “What tasks did you complete today?”
“Mamma wasn’t feeling good,” says Ragnhild.
“Sick,” expands her little sister.
“Sick, yes. So, we brought her food and drink to the house.”
My fingers still in the dirt, soil clinging to my nails.
“Oh no, sick? What ails her?”
“Evil dreams,” says a serious Ragnhild. “Keeps her up. She says it makes her weak. We try to help.”
“Good girls,” I respond. “Sleep is very important. Your mamma is right. Well done in helping her.”
Thyra doesn’t like me, and I don’t like her much either. But I still respect her. I would never wish her ill—she has raised two beautiful girls, so polite and friendly, without a father. Though I don’t understand what problem she has with me, I see she is great. A mighty woman.
We sit in silence, picking unwanted plants out of the earth.
“You guys are helping a lot,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Oh, we will claim our payment,” says Ragnhild, making me turn to her.
“Payment?”
A look of insanity enters her eyes as a stoat’s grin spreads on her face. I sense mischief in the air. She resembles a little Loki, god of trickery, as she stretches her arm to pick blackcurrants.
“Just a little taste,” she says as she plucks the two plumpest berries on the bush. One for her and one for her sister. They pop them in their mouth and chew, turning to each other with a giggle.
“Girls!” I say with a false strictness. “Are they even ready yet?”
“Very sour, but very tasty!”
She picks another pair and passes one to Gunnhild.
“Aren’t you going to taste?” she asks in the naughtiest tone.
A few missing berries won’t bring about Ragnarok. But Ragnhild just might… In any case, if I have stolen Asbjorn’s seax, surely I can taste a couple blackcurrants.
“Okay, pass me a few,” I say with a grin, stretching out my hand.
“A few,” repeats Gunnhild as her big sister rips a bunch, counting them and spreading them equally between our hands.
“Thanks for sharing,” I say.
As I am about to place them on my tongue, a familiar voice rings out behind me.
“What are you doing, slave?”
My stomach hollows instantly, like a bowl scraped clean of yesterday’s porridge. I know who it is. Of all living people, this is the worst one who could possibly be standing behind me right now. I drop the berries as I turn, staying on my knees.
Thyra—arms folded, rigid, looking down her nose at me with disgust. I can tell what the girls told me was true. Dark rings lie under her eyes. Disheveled hair shoots in all directions, like she hasn’t bothered with her appearance. Still, her glare instantly reminds me of my place in the hierarchy. I’m at the bottom.
“A thrall girl eating berries?” she asks. Thrall. The word makes me want to stand and shout in her face. Rip at her dress, at her hair. But I have to control myself. I want to avoid punishment at all costs. To be freed.
“Forgive me, my lady,” I respond demurely, keeping my eyes on the ground.
