and Sigrid shared a look. Asta suggested, “Eat first. See how you feel.”
Asta dished up a big bowl of broth with barley and cut a thick slice from a loaf of dark bread. She carried it over to Brit on a wooden tray.
By the time she’d eaten half the soup and taken a bite of the bread, Brit was ready to call it quits on the food front. “I guess I sort of miscalculated how much I could eat.” Also, she was tired again. This convalescing thing was so inconvenient. She handed Asta the bowl. “Thank you.”
“You are most welcome, Your High—”
“I wonder, could we dispense with the ‘Your Highness’ routine?”
Asta looked pleased. “I would be honored.”
“It’s Brit, then, all right?”
“Yes. Brit. Good enough.”
“Now, if you could just get me my clothes and—”
Asta was gently pushing her down. “All that can wait. Rest, now. You’re not ready to get out of bed.”
Brit found she tended to agree with Asta. So annoying. She felt tired to the bone. She didn’t have the energy to get dressed—let alone to deal with Eric Greyfell. She gave Asta a rueful smile. “Sorry, but there’s one thing that can’t wait.”
Asta brought her a pair of clogs and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders as the women by the fire continued with their needlework and the group of children played their game and little Mist sat on the floor near Brit’s sleeping bench, sucking her thumb and watching wide-eyed.
It was hard work, even leaning on Asta, to get all the way to the door and out into the crisp afternoon beyond. The thin sunlight, after the days inside, seemed blinding. Brit hardly had the energy to glance at the village around her—more long wooden houses, all grouped together along a single dirt street. There were pastures and paddocks behind the houses. Beyond the pastures, a thick forest of spruce flowed up the surrounding hills.
Asta noted her interest in the village houses. “Here we live in the old Norse way. In traditional longhouses—long, one-room dwellings where we eat, sleep, work and gather with our friends and family.”
Each house had a small garden to one side of it. The pastureland beyond the gardens was dotted with karavik and sturdy, long-haired white Gullandrian horses. According to the map Medwyn had drawn for her, Drakveden Fjord wasn’t far to the north. If she followed the fjord west, she should come to the site where her Skyhawk had gone down.
Not that she had the slightest inclination to go looking for it now. But someday soon. When the annoying weakness left over from her illness had passed.
At the end of the house, they reached a wooden lean-to. It had a sliver of moon carved into the top of the door. Just like in the old days in America, Brit thought. Was the moon on the door the international symbol for outhouse? She grinned to herself.
“Something humorous?” Asta wondered.
“Nothing important. And I don’t think I’m going to ask how you handled this while I was so sick.”
“We managed,” Asta replied with her usual sunny smile. “I’ll be right here when you’re done.”
Brit went in and shut the door. When she came out, Asta was waiting, as promised.
Brit forced a smile. “You are my hero, Asta, I hope you know it.”
“I am honored to be of service.”
“I have to ask, though I know it’s going to make me sound like your classic ugly American—don’t you ever think about putting in a bathroom, maybe adding electricity?”
Asta shrugged. “Here we live simply. It’s a hard life, yes. But that is our way. We believe the simple life builds strong character and a clear mind—now come. Let’s get you back to bed.” Asta offered her shoulder. Brit accepted it gratefully. Slowly they shuffled back inside, where Asta helped her to get comfortable and brought her warm water from the stove and a soft cloth to wash her hands and rinse her face. Brit was already half asleep again when Asta began checking the dressing on her bandage.
“Asta?”
“Hmm?”
“About my brother…”
“Shh. Sleep.”
“Sweep, sweep, sweep,” chanted Mist, over by the fire now with the other children.
Brit gave in and did as she was told.
The next time she woke, Eric Greyfell was sitting in a chair about two feet from her nest of furs.
She blinked, then muttered, “It’s about time you showed up.”
He nodded, one regal dip of his head. “My aunt informed me that you wished to speak with me.” And then he just sat there, looking at her.
They were alone. The high windows were dark and the lamps were lit. “Where is Asta?”
“My aunt, as you may have deduced, is something of a healer. Her skills are needed elsewhere tonight.”
It occurred to Brit that she’d met Asta’s daughters-in-law and grandchildren. But she’d never seen a husband. “Your uncle?”
“He died several years ago.”
She had assumed as much. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
He shrugged. “We live, we die. That is the way of things. For my uncle’s death, the time of mourning is long past.”
“I see. Well, a good thing, right—I mean, that grief passes?” Sheesh. Talk about inane chatter. She was filling in time as she worked her way around to what was really on her mind: Valbrand.
And the little detail no one seemed to want to talk about—the fact that he wasn’t dead, after all.
Greyfell said nothing. The fire crackled in the stove and Brit stared at Medwyn’s son, wondering how best to get him to admit that her brother was alive—and to convince him that he should bring Valbrand to her. Now.
As she debated how to begin, he watched her. She found his hooded gaze unnerving. “Why do you look at me like that?”
“Like what, precisely?”
She wished she hadn’t asked. “Never mind.”
He stood and came closer, until he loomed over her, his deep-set eyes lost in the shadows beneath the shelf of his brow. She stared up at those shadowed eyes and wished he hadn’t come so near. She felt like a total wimp, lying there in somebody else’s nightgown, weak and shaky and flat on her back.
She sat up—fast enough that her head spun and pain sliced through her shoulder. “Listen.”
“Yes?”
His shoulder-length ash-brown hair had a slight curl to it. He wore it loose, though it seemed
