“Yesterday was the best.” She grabs me in a hug. “Thank you.”
“I had a lot of fun too,” I reply, returning the embrace.
“It was the best day of the year. You raised all our spirits. Freya bless your gifts.”
Our eyes meet. Hers are full of wonder. I realize she looks to me as something more than a fellow thrall. She views me as a Volva. There are barely three years between us. A week ago, we would be considered equals, considered property. Now, my role has expanded in her mind. Freya has indeed blessed my gifts. Sifrid does not seem bitter in the slightest. Yesterday’s party had the desired effect. I am loved for my new role, not hated for its privileges.
“Your spirit is strong,” I reply. “Let me help you with the buckets.”
She grins.
“Thanks, but no, you have your tasks as I have mine. Good help would be another of those parties!”
She runs off to retrieve her buckets and carry them to the longhouse, likely to cook a porridge or revive a stew. My shoulders drop. I breathe out slowly, watching the girl perform her task with a lightness in her step. Not only am I not hated—I am revered, I am?—
“Kilda the Bull,” I hear behind me.
I know who it is. I turn to face him and lower my head in salute.
“Lord Vidar, up before the sun.”
He laughs, placing his massive body in front of mine. So close I take a step back to look up at him. His deep voice shakes my pained ears as he speaks.
“I’m surprised you’re up already considering last night’s festivities.”
“Did you notice?” I ask, lowering my gaze again.
“Who didn’t? I think they heard you girls laughing over Dovre Mountain.”
“Forgive me, my lord, I had hoped?—”
“Stop with this lord shit. It’s just us.”
I flash a smile. I figure it’s always safe to start formally and let my owners decide when I can be more personal. Both Sigurd and Vidar prefer me to call them by their names. At least when alone. That must be a good thing.
“Then forgive me, Vidar. I had hoped the walls of the house would contain the merriment.”
“The sound of joyful women has never hurt a man’s ears,” he says.
“Good to hear.”
“Hearing that skald however, by Odin—he squeals louder than a bride on her wedding night.”
I stifle a giggle, out of respect for Ari and his work the night before. Vidar’s comment is funnier because of Ari pretending to be a bride during his story. But surely Vidar doesn’t know this.
“Yes,” I say. “He needed his voice to carry over the girls.”
“So, you enjoyed the show?” says Vidar as he folds his arms. I remember Ari reacting to my comments about Vidar, in the tent. Vidar might feel a similar tint of jealousy. I don’t want to anger Vidar.
“We had a few good laughs, the?—”
“What was it you called him again?”
Vidar looks into the air, as if drawing from memory, before snapping his fingers.
“That’s it, a mangy crow.”
He laughs at my nickname for Ari, and I laugh with him. Now, after everything, my obsession with ridiculing the skald seems juvenile. How angry have I been? Ari isn’t even mangy, nor is he a crow. He’s more like a raven. Still, I laugh with the son of the lord who owns me. Vidar goes on.
