People spread through the trees, stripping long lengths of ivy, and snipping holly. Genova did her part but felt distanced, as if she had a fever. Ash joked, teased, and flirted as if among friends.
Everyone wanted to get to the mistletoe, but Lady Arradale stood firm until the cart was full. “Now,” she said, “we can go on to the orchard.”
There was a great cheer and someone started the mistletoe song again.
Hey, ho, the mistletoe,
It’s off to the greenwood we do
go.…
“But beware,” said Ash when the song died, “for the mistletoe can slay even invincible heroes.”
They were emerging from the wood by then, in small, laughing groups. The house stood massive some distance away, and they would have to go partly around it to reach the orchards and kitchen gardens.
Genova and Ash were with Lord Rothgar, Damaris Myddleton, and the ever-hopeful Lieutenant Ormsby. Genova was again between two marquesses. Was she unbalanced to be braced for danger? It was probably the effect of evening creeping early upon them.
The sky had darkened, and somewhere behind the clouds the sun was beginning to set. She didn’t think she was imagining that the air had turned colder, that a damp chill was creeping through shoes and under cloaks.
Or perhaps the shiver on her skin was because of Ashart’s comment about dead heroes and the tone in which he’d spoken.
“Because it’s poisonous?” she asked.
Lord Rothgar answered. “Because the mistletoe killed Balder, and he was not a mere hero but a god. That’s what you meant, isn’t it, Ashart?”
“Precisely. But one could say that Balder was killed because of the actions of his mother.”
Mother.Genova knew then that a new duel had begun.
“What actions?” demanded Miss Myddleton, who had placed herself on Ash’s other side.
“First Balder’s mother begged the gods to let her swear every living thing not to hurt him.”
“How could that be bad?” Genova asked. “Any mother would do that if she could.”
“But she ignored the mistletoe because she thought it too feeble to be dangerous. Typical female idiocy.”
“And on idle evenings,” Rothgar said, “the gods amused themselves by trying to kill him. Typical male idiocy.”
“What happened?” Genova asked, wondering what hidden dangers this conversation held.
“Imagine if you will,” Rothgar said, a raconteur amusing an audience, “a night in Asgard, Hall of the Gods. Mead flows and spirits soar. Lacking better amusement, the gods fire arrows at the fortunate one, and even hack at him with sharp blades.”
Ash laughed. “How reminiscent of the Court of St. James.”
“Hush.” But surely Lord Rothgar’s lips twitched. “Balder does not suffer—”
“May I express doubt?”
“—until Loki, envious of Balder’s good fortune…”
Loki.Genova almost gasped.
“The good fortune, note,” said Ash, “of being subject to constant attack. How very like the life of a favorite at court.”
“The fortunate must always be on guard,” Rothgar agreed. “Balder lacked this insight, and see what became of it. Loki—I believe you remember Loki, whose sole purpose was to ferment strife…?”
“We all recognize the type.”
