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She blinked at him. “You should eat it.” The dim firelight caught the sharp lines of his cheekbones and the shadows under his tired eyes.

His eyes burned with emotion. “Eat it, Gytha. It’s my job to worry about the family, not yours. Your job is to get better. That’s all. So eat it.”

The soup was thin but flavorful, and she managed a few bites before the dizziness and fatigue were too overwhelming. “I just want to sleep,” she whispered. “Please eat, Pabbi.”

He brushed at his eyes. “One more bite, Honeycake.”

She leaned her forehead against his and closed her eyes. The spoon touched her lips and she managed to swallow the bite before she fell asleep again.

The fever receded and rose again in waves. When she could sit up, she moved to the fire and worked on Hildr’s jacket; each time, she saw that her mother had worked on it while she slept.

Finally the jacket was done, Gytha’s own fine stitches indistinguishable from her mother’s. “I’ll take it back to Hildr,” she said.

“Do you feel up to it?” Her mother looked at her worriedly. “Why don’t you stay here? I’ll walk it back.”

Gytha smiled reassuringly. “I feel better, Mama.” The fever lurked, but she could see the fatigue in her mother’s face.

Her father was nowhere to be seen. “I’ll take the jacket,” Gytha said again. “Where is Pabbi?”

Her mother looked away. “Checking the traps. He’ll be all right.” Her voice shook.

Gytha licked her lips. “Is he sick too?”

Her mother nodded once. “Take Solveig with you.” The woman focused on the mending in front of her. Her fingers were trembling, and her cheeks were flushed.

The little ones were sitting quietly on the floor not far away; Sigrid, the second eldest, was teaching them simple words by writing them in water on a small blackboard which they had been given many years ago. They had run out of chalk long ago, but water worked quite well, and the heat of the stove dried the surface quickly when they wanted to write something new. The elder six children had learned to read this way.

“You’re sick, too,” breathed Gytha, realizing that the flush in her mother’s cheeks was not solely from the heat of the fire. “I’ll be back soon.”

She pulled on her threadbare coat and waited while Solveig, third eldest of the children at thirteen, pulled on her own coat and picked up the basket with Hildr’s jacket. Then they hurried outside.

The afternoon was so clear and bright that Gytha squeezed her eyes shut for a moment against the brilliant sunshine reflecting off the snow.

Solveig tugged on her arm, and they started off together toward town. “We were really worried about you.” The girl’s voice quavered.

“I’m all right.” Gytha smiled reassuringly down at her sister, ignoring the faint, feverish tingle of sweat across her back.

They tramped through thick snow on the trail, following their father’s footprints until his track left the path and turned into the forest to the north of town, where one might find deer, elk, hares, and grouse. Game was scarce this far into winter, but there was little use in sitting around the lodge growing weaker from hunger. The children needed to eat, even if Ivarr went hungry. He had snares set in a hundred places, and they knew he would check them all before turning toward the river.

Soon Gytha and Solveig reached the first of the many paths used by the townsfolk. Packed snow indicated that many men had already made their way to the river and to the lake for ice fishing.

The exercise had her blood pumping, and she breathed out clouds of white fog that glittered in the brilliant sun. By the time she reached Hildr’s house, she was out of breath and nearly stumbling with fatigue. Her cheeks were flushed and sweat crusted her hairline with salt, frozen as quickly as it rose.

Again, Hildr was generous, and again Gytha thanked her with tears in her eyes.

“Would you…” Gytha swallowed. “I think I misjudged your brother. I see the kindness in him. I would be honored to accept him, if he will still have me.”

Beside her, Solveig’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “But…”

Hildr bit her lip, her blue eyes gentle. “He has already sworn to marry a widow from Langaholt, closer to his own age. He asked her just after he heard of your refusal.”

An icy wind gusted, and Gytha swayed. “I didn’t refuse him.” Not exactly.

Hildr’s expression softened. “He took it as refusal. Anyway, he understood; he is old for you. Here.” She produced a small bag of flour and wrapped Gytha’s hands around the topof it, her own fingers warm against Gytha’s icy ones. “It isn’t much, but it is all we can spare. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” Gytha felt numb, both stomach and mind empty of all hope.

“If the sled from Langaholt brings supplies, Torvald will bring you something.”