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What he saw in them was Svana. He had not even realized before how similar her eyes were to her father’s.

And just like in Svana’s, there was no hatred, no resentment, and no blame.

Just love.

“You have not ruined your family, Andor,” Harek said. “She did not die because of you. She died because of Jarl Elgr. And you avenged her.”

Andor swallowed hard. “Did you know that I had promised her I would come earlier? Had I kept my promise, she would be alive. Did you know that, Harek? Do you still think me family now?”

Harek’s eyes darkened, blurred by pain. “I did not know that. Why—why did you stay away?”

Andor’s arms shook. “Because Ubba asked me to get the jeweled Bible that would be a strong negotiation point for him. Jarl Elgr raided because he knew I’d come back with ships sailing low with silver and spoils after I had given Ubba the book. Had I not stayed, had I not made my name so famous, and had I not chosen my pride over your daughter, she would be alive. So, you see, it is not Jarl Elgr you should blame. It is me.”

And then he knew—he needed to have this punishment. Either he would be punished, or he had to forgive himself. And he could not forgive himself. Cathy was right.

He unsheathed his sword and handed it to Harek, handle first. Harek looked at it with a deep frown.

“Take your revenge, Harek,” he said. “Take your revenge, because I cannot live like this. Not a day passes that I do not miss her. I came here under the pretense of giving you silver.” He shoved the sack with coins and jewelry into Harek’s hand. “But in earnest, it was to face you and to tell you the truth. Either you will grant me your punishment or your forgiveness.”

Harek’s face distorted in a grimace of pain and anger. He took the sword from Andor’s hands and held it, breathing heavily, then raised the tip to Andor’s neck, the edge digging into his skin.

Andor stood and did not look away. The door inside of him swung wide open. The ghosts broke free. They thundered within him, tearing his soul apart, screaming in his ears, clawing at his throat to be released in a howl.

Harek lowered the sword, his face still distorted. “Is this why you gave us this farm and why you send the silver? Not because you wanted to support us but because you feel guilty?”

Andor could not say anything, his throat and mouth hard as rock.

Harek let the sword go, and it clanked to the ground. “You are right, Andor. You should have chosen her. You should have gone home earlier. And if you had, maybe she would be alive.”

His words slashed at Andor like a whip. He closed his eyes. This hurt so much he began to sweat.

“But I forgive you, son,” Harek said. “That is what she would have wanted. She would have never wanted you to be haunted by guilt your whole life. She would have wanted you to take revenge against her killers, which you did. But then she would have wanted you to live a full life. To rebuild your home. To find a woman you could be happy with. And to never make such a mistake again.”

Andor felt as though soothing rain fell on his scorched skin, extinguishing the fire, calming him. And the ghosts within him silenced, too.

“And you should forgive yourself, as well,” Harek said.

Andor looked at him, his eyes gritty. “You do not know what your words mean to me, Harek.”

Harek’s eyes filled with tears, and he clasped Andor’s shoulder and squeezed it. “Come inside, son. Have a meal with us. Let us drink ale and mead and remember Svana. And stop sending us your silver. You do not owe us anything.”

Andor gave a curt nod and followed Harek inside. And for the first time since Svana’s death, the door was open, the ghosts were silent, and he felt at peace.

And now that he had that, the need for Cathy sucked at the bottom of his stomach. His hands itched to touch her, to have her by his side, to call her his forever. He knew Cathy had been right. Svana did not wish for him to suffer. Svana wished for him to be happy. Svana knew Cathy was the one he could find peace with.

But once again he was too late. Cathy was gone forever.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Sonada Beach, Los Angeles, February 14, 2019

The beach was quiet under the cold winter sun, just the waves crashing into the sand and seagulls screeching. Around a hundred people had arrived for the funeral, as far as Cathy could tell. No one was in black—she had specifically asked people to wear something beachy.

Brad would have wanted that.

Everyone who could surf wore wetsuits, including Cathy. The hot-pink wetsuit Brad had given her was now eleven hundred years back in time, in Wessex. If it survived until today, it would give archaeologists a real puzzle.

But she’d bought a new one just like the one Brad had given her. She thought he’d want colors and joy and that he’d wish everyone to be grateful for their life and their health.