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F ather returned from the Skeioholm market two days later, just as heavy, wet flakes of snow began to fall.

He brought a cart full of winter supplies, and hitched to the back of it was a new horse.

He was a beautiful blue roan, salt-gray as the ocean after a storm, with a black head and a little white star on his forehead.

“My girls!” Father called as he stepped off the cart, pulling me into a strong hug. My muscles tensed––an involuntary but learned reaction to his touch––but I hugged him back.

“How was it?” I asked, looking over the cart of goods to the new horse as he released me.

“Good!” He seemed in a cheerful mood, which eased my guardedness. “Successful, had enough of a surplus to buy a new horse. He’s young, and a little small, but I think he can learn to work the plow all the same. He’ll just need some training. Oh, and all of your yarn sold.”

He passed me a little pouch of coins, and pulled out another which he handed to Noirin.

We always received a cut of the proceeds from the yarn we spun.

Father liked to teach us to earn for ourselves, and often reminded us that we may not always be able to depend on a husband to do it for us.

The insinuation that we might not be able to find husbands, or might not be motivated to contribute to the household if we did, had always mildly annoyed me, but I appreciated his belief in building our independence nonetheless.

My mother exited the house and walked into the yard as we began to unpack the cart.

I watched from the corner of my eye as my father hugged and kissed her, more exuberant in his affection than she was in her receiving of it.

Grinning, he handed her a small, folded cloth, which she unfolded to reveal two intricate silver earrings, twisted in a swirling knotwork design around luminous blue gems. She smiled, holding one up to catch the soft light diffused through heavy clouds.

“Must have been a good market,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”

“Have to keep you around somehow,” my father half joked in reply. I turned back to my work, grimacing at the truth in his words.

I finished my chores in a rush that evening. If Father was back, then Sigurd was back. Any excuse, any reason at all I could dredge up to ride to his family’s steading was more than welcome.

Although my mother seemed to expect it coming, she didn’t know our relationship had already begun.

The thrill of it was intoxicating, but terrifying.

If my father found out I had been sneaking off to meet Sigurd in damp fields, ducking behind barns with him…

The thought of it made my stomach twist. While my mother apparently had little objection to it, my father definitely would, and she could offer me no protection against his anger.

But I was driven by love. Fresh, untainted, young love. And what better to risk his wrath for?

I rushed through my dinner like I’d rushed through my chores. Head down, quiet, drawing no attention to myself. Only as I rose to clear the dishes did I ask, “Can I take the new horse for a ride? See how he goes?”

My mother turned to my father in practiced deferral, raising questioning eyebrows to him and shrugging –– the strongest sign of her permission I would get.

My father sighed. “I was hoping to spend some time with my daughter after being away, but yes. Just be back before dark.” He glanced out the window. “Which is soon.”

I brushed off his attempted guilt trip, quickly cleaned my plate, and hurriedly helped Noirin with the rest of the dishes.

As I tugged on my boots, my father called to me with a tone of warning, “Halja, make sure you’re back before dark. Just the other day there were reports of a suspected daergdue in Skeioholm. And Glyrdsson told me last week he saw two balori kill one of his sheep.”

“I will, Father.”

Shadowfiends were never far away, in his eyes. I swept my cloak off its peg in the entryway and raced to the stables.

The new horse was quiet in his stall, almost asleep by the looks of it.

I saddled him quickly. To my surprise, he was undisturbed by my hurried actions.

We began at a slow walk, taking two turns around the yard in case he bolted.

Young horses in a new place sometimes ran for the home they’d come from when given the chance, and I was a new rider to him, even more reason for him to act out.

I was attentive to his gait, felt his measured steps ripple beneath me.

When I was satisfied that he would behave, I opened the gate and led him out, then encouraged him into a trot. Soon I had coaxed him into a gallop, pushing him down the road toward Sigurd.

I let us in the back gate of Sigurd’s family’s steading. The horse’s hooves squished through soft mud under a layer of fresh snow. The ground was not yet frozen, but a film of ice formed fragile panes across the puddles in the road.

I heard Sigurd’s voice in the barn as we approached, and anticipation hammered in my chest. When I walked through the open door, I saw him mumbling to the goats, a full pail of milk in one hand. His blond hair caught the dim evening light of the barn, pale against the shadows of the dark interior.

“You didn’t take long to find me,” he said with an easy smile. His blue eyes glinted like glacial ice in the low light.

“Couldn’t help myself,” I smiled back.

I crossed the barn and threw my arms around his neck, hugging him close.

He smelled like straw and goats, with an undertone of citrus and vanilla.

He smiled down at me, wrapping his arms tightly around my waist, and kissed me.

His lips were rough, chapped from a long day on the road in the wind, but I melted into his kiss just the same.

My core twisted and warmed with the excitement his touch invoked.

“How was Skeioholm?” I asked after we pulled apart.

“Good! I brought you something,” he said.

“You did?”

“Of course, silly. Can’t go to the last market of the season and bring nothing back for my girl.”

Sigurd reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, wrapped cloth, which I unfolded to reveal a handful of silver hair beads.

The tallest was set with a band of jade, and all were decorated with twisting swirls of knotwork designs.

They had the same stylistic signature as the earrings my father had given my mother.

“They’re beautiful! Oh Sigurd, thank you. I love them.” I threw my arms around him again and reached up to kiss him. His cinnamon beard scruff scratched my face.

“Let’s see them on then,” he said.

“I have to braid it first, be patient,” I replied, before sectioning out a lock of my silvery hair and beginning to braid it tightly. He leaned expectantly against a stall door, watching me. “There,” I said as I finished the braids. “How do they look?”

“Beautiful,” he said. “Just like you.” He pulled me to him and kissed me once more. I kissed him back with the fervor of days apart, the unpracticed passion of young love. He pulled back and said, “It feels so wrong to be away from you. I don’t like it, not even for a few days.”

“Me neither. Let’s not do it anymore,” I said, playful yet definitive.

“We should be together always,” he agreed. “Like a family. Because you are my family, Halja.”

I might have glowed golden in the dark interior of the barn.

He stepped back, tugging my hands to follow him, and led me up the ladder to the loft of the barn. He spread a big blanket over the straw and wrapped me in another. The snow fell much faster now, and the world outside was turning white.

“It’s cold,” I mumbled as I removed my cloak.

“Come here, let me warm you up. Take this off too. What? It’s easier to warm you up without your clothes in the way.”

I laughed, and we fell into each other in the fading light of the autumn night.

∞∞∞

I awoke in the dark, blinking in confusion, slow to realize where I was.

“Shit! Shit! Oh no, I’m late!”

Sigurd bolted up beside me. “What?” he slurred groggily.

“I was supposed to be home before dark and it’s way past that now and I have to go,” I rambled as I hastily tugged on my clothes.

“Shit, I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he said.

“I know, me neither, I have to go!” I knelt, brushed his soft blond locks from his forehead, kissed him quickly, and rushed down the ladder.

All the sadness I felt at leaving him again was overwhelmed by fear and anxiety. I rode out into the night as the snow fell. The clouds were thick and heavy above, blotting out any moonlight that would find its way to the earth.

The steading was all dark as I approached, all quiet.

No lamps had been left burning for me, nobody had waited up to scold me.

I yanked the tack off the horse and left him in the stable, then crept into the house.

Old boards creaked beneath my feet, but nobody stirred as I slipped into my room and under the blankets.

One of our cats, a soft brown tabby, jumped onto the bed and settled in the hollow behind my bent knees, the designated place for cats for as long as they’d been sharing beds with humans.

I laid awake for a while, unable to quell the anxiety twisting my stomach, the guilt wracking my body.

I would face the wrath of my father in the morning.

∞∞∞

Face his wrath I did.

My father was seated at the table in the kitchen when I finally brewed the courage to venture out from my room. He did not look up as I entered.

“Sit down, Halja,” he ordered.

I sat.

“What time did you get home last night?” he said with deceptive calm.

“I, uh, I don’t really know,” I answered.

“After I went to bed,” he said. “I waited up for you. It was after dark.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t–”

“I was worried sick about you, Halja. I had no idea where you’d gone, if you were even alive! I didn’t even know where to begin to look!”

My mother entered the kitchen and stood with her arms crossed tightly, making herself small, little more than a shadow against the wall. She said nothing.