“Ylvin,” he says.
“As stated earlier, the two of you have the honor of cooking us dinner. I’m going in to relax with Elof. Just shout when it’s done.”
She glides into the dark lavvu, probably to hump her husband. Ylvin brims with energy—she is powerful, but her style is different from Groa’s. That is putting it mildly.
“She has ingredients,” says Ari.
“If only we knew what to do with them,” I laugh.
He looks at me with a raised eyebrow.
“You can’t cook?”
“Uh, no?”
“Aren’t you a woman?”
“Stop joking, Ari. You fucking idiot.”
“The woman can’t cook a simple stew, but by the gods can she sling around insults.” He shakes his head.
“I always bought food from others for my father and me. What are you saying? You can cook a stew?”
“Of course,” he says. “I’m not stupid or anything.”
I slap his arm.
“Watch it!” I say sternly.
Ylvin’s voice rings out into the forest.
“Can you whisper out there? They can hear you arguing up in Valhalla. We’re trying to rest.”
“Sorry,” I shout.
I exchange a quick glance with Ari, unable to hide a smile.
“Fine,” whispers Ari. “Crush some garlic. I’ll cut onions.”
He slaps a white piece of deer fat into the heated pot on the fire.
“Why? Aren’t we making a meat stew?”
“Any good stew begins with onions and garlic, Kilda.”
He rolls his eyes as if pestered by some insolent child.
“But… the taste is so strong,” I say as I crush garlic with a rock. The smell sets my nostrils aflame.
“The tastes will blend in the pot. What are you? Five years old?”
“Okay, Ari. Listen. I’ve already told you I can’t cook. Keep insulting me and I’ll go for the knife.”
He laughs wholeheartedly, grinning through his beard.
“Fair enough,” he says. “You know what? I’m almost starting to enjoy your shitty attitude, believe it or not.”
“Right,” I snort. “Says the king of petty insults.”
