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“Go back to sleep, Wren.”

I study him.

This enormous, dangerous man who has every reason to demand things from me and hasn’t demanded a single one.

“You’re not going to tell me what to do?”

His mouth curves.

“I just did.”

I laugh softly.

“Smartass.”

He inclines his head.

“Sleep well, little flower.”

I close the door.

And for the first time in a very long time, I do.

Chapter 4

Vidar

For three thousand years, I’ve known nothing but silence.

Now a woman is murdering a song in the next room.

Loudly.

Enthusiastically.

And with absolutely no regard for the melody.

I open my eyes.

Sunlight spills through the windows of Wren’s apartment, illuminating the pink furnishings and ridiculous collection of flowers. Somewhere beyond the glass, carriages without horses rumble along Saint Street.

And from the kitchen comes the most dreadful singing I have ever heard.

I rise from my position beside her bedroom door and follow the sound.

Wren stands barefoot before a small iron pan, wearing a pale pink nightdress that barely reaches the tops of her thighs.

Her auburn hair tumbles down her back in a wild tangle of curls. She holds a wooden spoon like a royal scepter, swaying her hips to the music coming from a small device on the counter.

She spins.

Sings something about a man who has apparently wronged her.

Then points the spoon accusingly at the ceiling.

I lean against the doorway.

And smile.