I manage a faint smile.
The forge crackles in the silence. Hrolf scrapes his spoon along the plate to catch the last crumbs. "Good cake."
"It is,"I agree softly.
Children's voices drift in from the street, high and bright against the cold. They appear in the doorway. Four of them, small and bundled against the winter. They have red orchids clutched in their mittened hands. A girl steps forward with great solemnity and places two orchids near the prison bars.
"For the bear," she says, pointing at the shelf. "And the dog."
Hrolf doesn't smile. But he reaches up, takes the toy sets, and hands them through the bars.
The children squeal and immediately begin negotiating who gets to play first with the intense seriousness only children can bring to such matters.
Another child pushes forward. A boy holding a cloth bundle. He unwraps it carefully to reveal three small rolls of bread, slightly squashed.
"Mama said these are for the pot," he announces, setting them near the iron bars. "The big one."
Hrolf looks at the bread and the boy. He lifts the copper pot with the fish handle off the wall and sets it down.
The boy beams and gathers the pot with both arms. They leave in a cheerful, arguing cluster. Hrolf watches them long after they go.
"You make toys," I say.
"I make what's needed." He picks up his chisel again. "Pots and toys are needed."
I look around the forge again. At the careful work on every shelf. At the child-sized helmet with flowers along the brow and small wooden carts with iron wheels.
"Pick something," Hrolf suddenly says.
I turn. "What?"
"It's Isolwen's Eve." He gestures broadly at the shelves. "Anyone who comes to the forge today leaves with something. That's how it works."
My throat closes.
His wife and child. Both gone. My mother's war took them, along with half the dwarven settlements in the northern range. She starved them on their mountain, and here he stands, offering me gifts on a mercy goddess's holiday without knowing who I am or what name I carry.
"I shouldn't," I say carefully. "I do not deserve your kindness, master dwarf."
"That's not for ye to decide." His eyes narrow.
"Pick ten things. For the honeycake." He gestures at the shelves with his free hand. "I'd trade everything in here for another one of those."
A reluctant laugh escapes me. "Then I will take one."
"Five. You saved my life. Let me pay the blood debt with this," he insists.
"Three," I say firmly. I walk the shelves slowly.
Hrolf watches me in silence. I do not choose for myself. I think of Lady Deirdre, who lost her husband and her son. I think of Lenna and Tallula, who made a flower wreath for a wyvern because they wanted her to feel included.
I stop at a small headpiece, simple and elegant, engraved with a pattern of leaves along the band. "This one. For a healer I know."
I lift a small brooch, a flower with a center of amber. Lenna would love this. "For my friend.”
I hesitate at a heavy cast iron pan, perfectly balanced, the handle fitted with a grip of wound leather. Perfect for Tallula, who burns everything except eggs. "And this."
Hrolf grunts, which I take as agreement. He takes them down and wraps them in a square of cloth.
