She interrupts herself.
“Pspsps,” she says as she rubs her fingers together.
A particularly fat cat jumps forward from my bench, making a loud thump as it lands on the ground. Its white fur is well-kept and clean. I hadn’t noticed it lying beside me.
“You know cats,” says Ylvin. “Not seen unless they want it. Like us Volvas.”
Us Volvas? I’ll take that as a compliment. The cat jumps into Ylvin’s lap, seeking warmth and cuddles. The Volva strokes the animal, which releases a purr. The movement causes the fur Ylvin is wrapped in to slide, exposing one of her breasts. Her entire body is so white, it’s clear she doesn’t do a lot of work in the sun. Unlike me or the other thrall ladies.
“Did you know cats are Freya’s favorite animal?” she asks.
“Yes,” I reply, happy to show my knowledge. “Freya’s chariot is pulled by two giant cats. Groa had one too.”
“Very good. I’m happy you know about the gods. Groa is your previous Volva, I presume?”
“Correct.”
Ylvin lies back, lost in thought. She spreads her legs slightly, relaxing her body. Her fur splits to expose her stomach, barely covering her crotch. Otherwise, I would see straight into her womanhood. Her milky complexion takes on the color of the embers. A body bathed in orange and shadows—some mythical being. She’s quite surreal sitting there with her fat cat.
“You know what,” she begins. “I don’t know Groa, so it may be better to forget what she taught you. Keep that in mind as we go on.”
I definitely won’t forget Groa’s teachings, but I nod nonetheless.
“Yes, Ylvin. May I ask you something?”
“Go on.”
“The curse on the hammer, Sigurd said that he had?—”
“I dreamed about you, you know?” she says.
“You… you did?”
“Yes. Don’t worry, it wasn’t a nightmare,” she laughs.
Her eyes bore into me, making me flash a quick smile. Seconds pass before she breaks the silence.
“So, tell me something.”
“Tell you what?”
“Anything.”
“Uh, I… What do you mean?”
“By the gods, girl, tell me something about yourself.”
“Oh, well, I don’t know. I can’t cook?”
She howls in laughter, making the cat open its eyes wide before it relaxes again.
“Funny. That makes two of us,” she says with a grin. “Lucky we have men. But no, tell me something juicier. Tell me something that will taste like the ripest, wettest pear.”
What does she mean? I’m starting to wonder if she’s just a raving maniac who scammed Jarl Sigurd for his money.
“I am enslav?—”
“I know.”
