Chapter 2
Our wretched carriage rattles along the dirt road, shaking my insides. I’ve gotten used to it. How could I not? As a babe I surely lay here, where I sit now. Always moving, yet stuck in the same place.
“No,” I reply curtly.
To my surprise, Father doesn’t complain. He doesn’t insist. I refuse to feed his habit. I already feed him venison and rabbit. I pour his mead. I trade for it all. I steal. How many daughters maintain their fathers? If he were honorable, honoring him would feel better.
“Don’t worry, Kilda,” he says. “I’ll figure something out.”
He always does—begging, bartering, lending. All that cunning wasted to get his next fix. A shame to our name. How much do we owe the other families? I have no clue. I don’t think Father does either.
My eyes drift to the woods as I ignore him.
Summer air presses heavy. The cascading river roars far above our heads.
A gorgeous day. Rows of pink willowherb grow along the road.
Their sweet scent washes over me. Groa says that when the flowers on the willowherb’s tip bloom, the summer’s over.
Luckily, they have just reached the middle.
“The men will meet tonight. I will join them,” continues Father. “Pray for my luck.”
Pray for your recovery, rather. He hums the joyful tune of a man lost in fantasy. I want to scream in his face.
With great effort, I control the impulse. The scene is beautiful. A merciless sun forcing creation to glow, with bumblebees bumbling about and birds flitting past to court each other. Raunchy little things.
But who am I to judge? For a year I have stolen private moments with Narve, giving in to lust and momentary pleasure.
Addicted to release, I use a close friend as firewood.
He has hinted at coupling, not just coupling in the woods.
Last time—in the woods, of course—he had been so soft, so loving.
Too loving. The smell of our bodies blended with pine.
He had spoken more than usual, and I had moved faster, hoping sweat would drown his words.
He knows I’d gut him if he didn’t pull away before he—
Father coughs, interrupting my daydreaming. My cheeks are heated at the thought of riding Narve. Sneak off tonight? Maybe. Probably. He has never said no, only I have.
“Today, I win big. I know it,” says Father.
That’s it. That’s enough. I jump off the carriage.
“I’m going to Groa’s,” I say.
“Wish me luck!” he shouts as I head down the caravan.
I love my father, truly. But I don’t like him.
Not at all. I release a deep breath, regaining my composure.
Polite nods are given to fellow travelers I pass while strolling, as is expected.
Farther down the caravan, I spot Narve, sitting on his mother’s carriage. He beams as I near.
“Is that Freya?” he shouts, feigning confusion.
I laugh. Probably red-eyed and pale after last night’s robbery—his compliment lands as a joke. I am neither cursed nor blessed in my looks, but next to the goddess of beauty, I am surely a toad. At least in my current state, with my dark hair untamed.
“You must be confused from last night’s mead,” I reply, stroking the silver-coated Fjording mare pulling their carriage. She snorts as I scratch her neck. The weight of my new blade presses against my thigh, beneath my dress. So gorgeous a dagger. I might not even sell it.
“I think she likes you,” says Narve, continuing his jokes.
I know this animal better than he does. If only we had our own horse.
With Father’s habits, I’m forced to rent one from a fellow when we travel.
I pay with my own coin. As far as my people are concerned, I’m a gifted trader.
I drive a hard bargain. Dread awaits if they discover my only bargains are locked doors.
I often sell items at a low price just to get rid of the evidence.
“She might like me more than she does her cruel driver,” I say. Narve is not cruel. He’s kind, rather—a little too kind. Sometimes a man has to stand, choose, fight for his goals. Fighting isn’t kind, but often necessary.
“If I am cruel,” he laughs, “why has Freya come to bless me with her presence?”
“Who says I came to bless you? Isn’t Groa in the carriage you pull?”
“An arrow to my heart,” he says, clutching his chest. I step closer, voice low so his mother doesn’t hear.
“Maybe we could meet up tonight? In the woods?” I say, deliberately sly.
His smile stays, but there is a glint of sadness beneath it. A practiced mask. Am I just using him? Hurting him more than he lets me see?
“I’m eager to serve the goddess of beauty,” he replies hoarsely. “I’ll be here.”
I punch his shoulder, unsure whether he is teasing or giving a compliment.
“Stop!” I say with a giggle. “I’ll see you later then.”
The sun is high, the wind is warm, the birds and bees are playful.