opened her mouth to argue further, but then the woman leaned close again. A silver medallion dangled from her neck. It must have swung free of her dress when she bent for the cup. Brit couldn’t resist reaching out and touching it. It spun a little on its chain, catching the firelight. The sight made Brit smile.
The woman smiled, too, the web of wrinkles in her face etching all the deeper. “My marriage medallion.”
Marriage? Brit frowned. And then she sighed. “I have one, too.” Brit pressed the place where her medallion lay beneath the nightgown, warm against her breast. “From Medwyn, my father’s grand counselor. But mine’s only for luck.”
“Ah,” said the woman, a strange and too-knowing expression on her wise, very lived-in face. “Sleep now.”
Brit did feel tired. But she had so many questions. “Where am I?”
“You are where you wished to be, among the ones they call the Mystics.”
“How long have I been… sick?”
“This is the fourth day.”
Her plane had gone down on Monday. “Thursday? It’s Thursday?”
“Yes.”
“How did I—?”
“Eric found you. He brought you to us.”
Hope bloomed, a small, bright flame, within her. “Greyfell found me—in Drakveden Fjord?”
“That’s right.”
“But then, it must be true.” The woman frowned down at her, clearly puzzled. “I saw him—Eric Greyfell—in Drakveden Fjord, where I crashed the Skyhawk. Valbrand was with him, I swear he was. Wearing a black mask. And there was this guy with a crossbow…” She laid her hand over the thick bandage on her shoulder. “Someone shot him before he could—”
“Hush.” The woman’s warm wrinkled hand stroked her brow. “No more questions now. Sleep.”
“My father. My mother and my sisters… they’ll be so worried….”
“Word has been sent to the king that you are safe with us.”
The questions spun in her brain. She needed the answers. But the woman was right. There were too many to ask right now. She could barely keep her eyes open.
“Sleep,” the woman whispered. Something about her was so familiar.
“Please… your name?”
“I’m Asta. Medwyn’s sister. Eric’s aunt.”
So, Brit thought. Medwyn’s sister. She should have known, of course. Medwyn had told her of Asta, and she could see the resemblance around the eyes and in the shape of the mouth. “Asta.” It was pronounced with the As like twin sighs: Ahstah. “It’s a pretty name.”
“Thank you, Your Highness. Now sleep.”
“Yes. All right. I will. Sleep…”
* * *
Brit heard the playful giggle of a child. She opened her eyes in time to watch a mop of shiny blond curls disappear over the side of the sleeping bench.
A few seconds later the curls popped up again, along with a pair of china-blue eyes and a cute little turned-up nose. The eyes widened. “Oops.” The small face popped out of sight again. There was more giggling below.
Brit grinned and whispered in a dry croak, “I see you.”
More giggles. And then the little head rose into view once more. The rosebud mouth widened in a shy smile. The child raised a thumb and pointed it at her tiny chest. “Mist.”
“Hello, Mist. I’m Brit.”
“Bwit.” The child called Mist beamed with pleasure. “Pwincess Bwit.”
“Just Brit will do.”
“Just Bwit. Bwit, Bwit, Bwit…”
“Mist,” Asta chided from over by the stove where she sat with two younger women, a circle of children playing some sort of game with sticks and a tiny red ball at their feet. “Leave Her Highness to sleep.”
“It’s all right.” Brit winked at the child and pulled herself to a sitting position, wincing at the sharp twinge from the wound in her shoulder. Sunlight slanted in the high slits of the windows. Late morning, Brit thought. Or possibly early afternoon. She let her head fall forward to stretch her stiff neck, and her tangled hair fell over her eyes. She speared her fingers in it to shove it back.
Ugh. A serious shampooing and a little intimate contact with a decent conditioner would do wonders about now. Not to mention a long, hot bath. She heard a growling sound—her stomach. She could eat half a polar bear, or whatever they were serving here in the Vildelund. But first, water. A tall, cool, glorious glass of it.
However, she hesitated to throw back the furs and go looking for a drink in her thin borrowed nightgown with all these strange women and children in the room. “I wonder, could I have some water?”
“Of course.” Asta set aside her sewing and went to the big wooden counter against one wall. The sink was there, complete with an ancient-looking pump faucet. Asta pumped clear water into a tall cup and carried it to Brit.
She drank. It was absolute heaven going down.
From her seat on the floor, Mist giggled some more. “Bwit fuhsty.” Fuhsty, Brit figure out, had to mean thirsty.
Brit swallowed the last of it. “Was I ever. Thanks.” She handed Asta back the empty cup. The women by the fire were watching her. She gave them a nod. “I seem to remember you two being here while I was sick…”
“I forget myself,” said Asta. “Your Highness, my daughters-in-law, Sif and Sigrid. Mist, whom you’ve met, is Sif’s youngest.” She named off the other children. Two were Sigrid’s and two, Sif’s.
“Great to meet you all.” Brit turned to Asta again. “And now… what’s for dinner?”
Asta’s smile was wide and pleased. “Your health improves.”
“It certainly does.”
“Bah-wee soup,” announced Mist.
“That’s barley,” Asta explained.
Brit wrinkled her nose. “I was thinking more along the lines of steak and eggs and hash browns.”
“Your stomach isn’t ready for solid food yet.”
Brit sighed. “Barley soup it is.” She gave Asta a big smile. “And would you go and tell my brother I’d like to see him now, please?”
It seemed, for a moment, as if the room was too quiet. Then Asta spoke carefully. “We talked of this earlier. Perhaps you’ve forgotten. Your brother is—”
Brit
