Page 63 of Truly, Madly Viking

But one thing in this land might prove better: the food set out on the table smelled delicious, though foreign to his palate. Not a salted fjord fish or a bowl of skyr, the soured cream favored by many in his country, was in sight. And there was no central hearth with a boar on the spit or an ever-present cauldron of the meat or vegetable of the day—usually rabbit and leeks. No loss to him were any of those things.

Instead Mag-he, without the aid of any house carls, had prepared a roast turkey with sage stuffing, whipped potatoes, and candied sweet potatoes. Jorund had no idea what a potato was until Mag-he explained that it was a root vegetable, like a turnip. How one went about whipping a root, he could not even guess. There was also corn—another vegetable he'd never witnessed before—cranberry sauce—which caused his eyes to narrow and his belly to knot up because it had the same jiggly texture as that hated jail-low from the Rainbow hospitium— bread, butter, milk, and pumpkin pie.

Another thing he did not miss from his time was the often smelly, vermin-infested rushes on the floor. It was a constant struggle on the part of womenfolk to keep them fresh with juniper and dried herbs. Here there were luxurious carpets... thick as the plushest wool fleece. But then, hounds did not abound indoors here, grousing about for bones and relieving themselves hither and yon. Just an irksome cat that had its own privy box. The insufferable Rita had taken to following him about, giving him the evil eye. He would consider cleaving the bothersome beast from its hissing mouth to its twitching tail if he did not recognize the misplaced affection these three females held for the fat cat.

He started to reach for a piece of bread, then pulled his hand back abruptly when Beth made a cautionary tug on his sleeve. Beth was the name of one twin, he had learned; Sue-zee was the other.

Jorund was not devoid of social graces, but he felt so awkward in this strange country whose customs he was yet learning. Even the use of a fork still came clumsily to him.

"We have to say grace firt," Beth informed him as she took his hand.

Grace? Who is Grace? Jorund glanced behind him to see if another person had come in, or worse yet, another bothersome cat.

Sue-zee took his hand on the other side. Then both girls joined hands with their mother at the other end of the table.

Jorund closed his eyes briefly at the wave of poignant memory that swept over him at the feel of two tiny hands engulfed by his. The entire hand of each of them barely covered his palm.

And the skin... ah, the skin was softer than the film on his mother's thick cream.

Dismayed, he opened his eyes to see the girls gazing at him with what could only be described as...

adoration. Adoration! That caused him to be even more dismayed. What had he done to earn such adoration? Nothing. He did not deserve—nor did he want—such sentiments. Really, they were pathetic little creatures in their need for a father figure, he concluded. Any man would have suited, At least, that was what he told himself. But deep down, he suspected the only pathetic one in this picture was a Viking who was quaking in his boots... or rather, his cloth running shoes.

"Dear God, bless this food we are about to eat.... " Mag-he began.

Oh. Grace must be a prayer.

"And let us give thanks for all the bounty you have given us this year."

"Amen," the three of them said at once.

The only bounty I've been given is a kick in the arse through time to a land of lackwits, he thought ungraciously, and tried to tug free of the girls' hands, but the little imps held on tenaciously. Now that they had him, they were not about to let him go.

"Now let's begin our annual ritual," Mag-he told her daughters. They nodded, but first Mag-he elaborated to him: "Each Thanksgiving we list the things we are most thankful for from the past year.

Holy bloody hell!

"I'm thankful that no more killer whales were captured last year," Beth, the gentle twin, said.

Huh? What an odd sentiment! I would think a child her age would be thankful for a new pair of slippers, or a riband. But a whale's noncapture?

"I'm thankful that I passed math this quarter," Sue-zee proclaimed with a brash smile at her mother.

"What is this math?" Jorund asked.

"Numbers. Adding, subtracting, multiplying, dividing. Yuck!" Sue-zee explained with disgust.

"Ah," he said with understanding. "I know exactly how you feel. Ever did I have trouble with my numbers as a child. Likewise, my brother Magnus of the Big Ears. The priest who was hired to tutor us nigh pulled his hair out with frustration... what little there was on his bald tonsured pate. My brother Rolf the Shipbuilder was the scholar... he fostered in the Saxon court, but I was destined for the battlefield, even as a youth ling, and..." His words trailed off as he realized that everyone was gaping at him... and that he'd interrupted the thanking ritual.

Mag-he spoke next. "I'm thankful that I got my doctorate degree finally, and that I'm now a full fledged psychologist."

Jorund thought her efforts might have been better directed toward more traditional female tasks... like begetting more children, especially boys—there was always a need for more young men to go off to battle or build ships or plow fields. With a grin, he decided not to share those sentiments with her. She would no doubt call him a male show-vein-is pig, just as Reva had called Josh one day a few weeks ago.

Or perchance she would clout him on the side of the head, as his mother was wont to do with his father when he pronounced what she called "male blather" or "ale talk."

Sue-zee spoke again. "I'm thankful Joe came home."

"Me, too," Beth said.