Page 7

“Come to bed, Mama,” Gytha urged. Hlif could barely be roused at all, and she stumbled to bed with an inarticulate mumble.

The next day, Ivarr wrapped some of the elk meat in a clean cloth and took it to a nearby family he knew was also struggling. He was gone for nearly three hours, for even with snowshoes, the walk was slow. When he returned, the sky was streaked with the last hint of orange sunset.

Snow swirled through the door as he stepped inside, stopping to stomp the ice from his boots before he closed the door. “Storm coming,” he said. “Going to be bad.”

He leaned back against the wall of the lodge for balance as he pulled off his thick fur snow pants, revealing regular indoor clothes beneath, and exchanged his boots for indoor slippers. His clothes hung off his gaunt frame; he was still far thinner than Gytha could remember from any other winter. But he moved with something closer to his customary vigor, not the lethargy of starvation.

“They’re not quite as bad off as we were,” he said. He was still breathing hard; the fatigue of deprivation was not entirely passed. “They sent some acorn flour and eggs as thanks.”

His gaze lingered on his wife, who slouched in the rocking chair near the stove. Gytha crouched beside her, one hand on her mother’s forehead.

He stepped closer. “Hlif, my love, go rest.”

Her eyes fluttered, but she did not wake.

“Her fever’s higher,” Gytha said. “I took her outside earlier to try to cool her, and it helped for a while. I can take her again.”

Without a word, Ivarr stooped to take his wife in his arms. Weak as he still was, he might have struggled to lift her, but she was as frail and thin as a reed. Gytha pressed close, as if she could help her father, but her father grunted with effort and staggered toward the door. Little Randulf opened it for them, his eyes wide with worry.

The sky was low above them, iron gray and ominous, but only a little snow fell softly. Ivarr sank down to sit on the steps with Hlif on his lap. He leaned back against the wooden wall of the lodge and shifted his arms to hold her closer. Hlif rested her head on Ivarr’s shoulder, mumbling a weak protest against the cold.

“I think Master Eyvindr has willow bark. I’ll ask for some from him.” Gytha met her father’s gaze across Hlif’s pale golden head.

“I don’t want you out in the storm. I’ll go.”

Gytha shook her head. “Pabbi, the children are desperate to see you strong again, and I feel the edge of fever not quite gone. The walk will be good for me. It’s not that far.”

Ivarr frowned at her and put a hand on her forehead. “You stay. I’ll go.” His voice brooked no argument.

The sky was rapidly growing darker, and the icy wind cut through Gytha’s coat. She shivered, and Hlif roused a little at the motion.

Gytha sat beside her father, and together they carefully shifted Hlif to sit between them, leaning against Gytha for support. Hlif murmured something neither of them could make out, and Ivarr’s worried frown grew more grave. He retrieved a blanket from inside and wrapped it around them both. Hlif’s fever needed to come down, but freezing was a real danger, too.

He looked up at the sky and then back to her. “Don’t stay out too long. Once you’re inside, don’t open the door to strange sounds,” he said. “Especially not the bear.”

Then he strode away into the deepening shadows. The wind picked up, swirling snow in dizzying patterns.

Gytha could feel her fever rising like a pounding song in her head, and the pain of the cold upon her cheeks felt like the only thing keeping her mind lucid. She sweated and burned while her fingers and toes turned to ice. Darkness fell, and still she satwith her mother upon the doorstep, too dazed to remember that she was supposed to go inside. The whirling snow that whipped past her face, dancing and spinning, made it hard to remember which direction was up and which was down.

At last, Sigrid opened the door. “Gytha! You must be frozen! I thought you’d come in already!” She and Solveig helped Gytha and their mother inside. The girls had been busy feeding, watering, milking, and cleaning the stalls of the animals in the barn end of the lodge for some time, and had only just returned from these chores.

They got Hlif into a chair near the fire, with a blanket wrapped around her and the two youngest, Brinja and Halvard, tasked with holding her icy hands to warm them. Then they turned their attention to Gytha, who had sat down at the table.

“You’re frozen, too, Gytha!” said Sigrid. “Come warm up.”

“I’m fine!” Gytha ran her fingers through her blonde hair, and her fingertips felt like ice against her scalp. “Pabbi ought to be back soon.” She felt dizzy with fever, exhausted and freezing and yet too restless to be comfortable in the heat of the lodge. She accepted a cup of hot broth from Dagney and drank it gratefully, feeling the warmth sit in her belly like a banked coal. She was hot and cold at the same time, sticky with sweat and shivering.

Little Halvard, sitting with his head against their mother’s knee and her hand against his cheek, said, “Don’t faint, Gytha.”

She put a hand against the edge of the table, and the wood was solid and warm against her frozen fingers. Little Halvard’s face, turned toward her with concern in his huge blue eyes, split into two wavering images.

“I’m hot,” she gasped, and she stumbled across the lodge to the door. She wrenched it open and fell to hands and knees in the snow outside.

Solveig darted across the lodge and out to her, closing the door behind her. “Come, Gytha.” She pulled at Gytha’s arm.

“I can’t. I’m so hot.” Belying this, Gytha had begun to shiver and tremble. She could not decide whether she wanted to be wrapped in blankets and crawl into the fire or bury herself in the snow. Her skin was hot but she felt like there was ice inside her, skittering like fear through her burning skin and up her spine.

One hand slipped, and she fell on her face in the snow. With a groan, she curled onto her side.