Page 1 of Heart of Fire
One
Iceland,1880
“Here, father,”Freyja murmured, tilting the steaming cup of broth to his lips. “Perhaps this will take away thechill?”
Her father slurped at the watery soup, his eyes blue and vacant as his trembling hands tried to cup hers. “It’s delicious, Freyja. One of yourbest.”
Freyja pasted a smile on her face, even though he couldn’t see it. Bitterness burned in her throat. “Yes, Papa. It is, isn’tit?”
There were more vegetables than lamb in the broth, and more water than both, but the fact he sought to spare her feelings made her shoulders hunch. It had been such a long winter, with little food or respite from the storms. The few coins they had left were drying up and her small herd of ewes was dwindling. She couldn’t justify slaughtering another just to add more flavor to theirsoup.
Her father coughed, that same dry, hacking cough that had haunted him all winter. Freyja grabbed a rag and helped to dry his cheeks with it. Sometimes she wondered if he would survive to see anotherwinter.
A fluttery feeling rose up to choke her, and she forced it down ruthlessly. No point in being maudlin. He was here and this was now. The future couldwait.
“How was the village this afternoon?” her father asked. “You didn’t see Ingmar’s boy, didyou?”
If she had, then Benedikt would have no interest in her. Not a respectful interest anyway. He had already hinted he might have means to offer her coin to keep her larder stocked through the spring. Telling her father that, however, might send him to an early grave. He had such hopes. Freyja intended never to enlighten him; with his poor health, their dwindling resources, and her eyes, she was unlikely to make any sort of respectablematch.
“He must have been busy, I’m sure,” she replied, squeezing his hand, then levering to her feet. Gathering the ceramic bowls together, she crossed to the kitchen. “He has all that land to tend, afterall.”
Some of it theirs—or what she’d been forced to sell after her father’s eyes faded and he could no longer work the land. She’d done what she could, but tending to him took a lot of hertime.
The shutters banged on the windows as the winds lifted. Freyja glanced through the glass toward the enormous storm clouds boiling on the horizon. A storm from the north then, and bound to be bitter with the kiss of Arctic winds on its breath. She could feel it in her bones, tingling beneath her skin as if she herself were tied to the storm. It would blow a mighty gale, tearing its way through the mountains that shielded their little homestead, then blow out by morning. She knew it, with some inexplicable sixthsense.
Most of Iceland suffered from bitter chill at this time of year, but the area surrounding Akureyri was somewhat warmer thanks to a trick of the coastline, of cliffs and mountains. Of course, out here they were virtually alone. It was a day’s sail to Reykjavik and longer overland, if one evendared.
“I have to fetch the sheep in,” she called, watching the dull gray edge of the clouds roiling. Lightning flickered in the distance. “We’re in for astorm.”
“Be careful,” her father called, sinking into his shawl and coughing again. “Don’t be toolong.”
“I won’t,Papa.”
“And takeLoki.”
She rolled her eyes at the small bundle of white fur that nestled by her father’s feet. “Come.”
The little arctic fox yawned at her, seemingly content to stay where he was. Another mouth to feed when she truly couldn’t, but then a part of her couldn’t throw him out the door. He’d been with them since he was apup.
Freyja frowned, reaching out with the inner part of herself that had some sense of connection to the creature.Come.
Loki rolled to his feet and shook himself, discarding strands of long white hair. Underneath, his summer coat grew darker. Another week or two and he’d lose the rest of his winter coat. He leaped with agile quickness to dart beneath her skirts, and threatened to tripher.
“You will make me a nice fur muff one day,” she threatened, though he ignored her and scratched at the door, knowing full well the threat washarmless.
Skirts wrapping haphazardly around her legs, Freyja fought her way across the yard. It was almost five in the afternoon and evening was falling. In the village, most of the men would be retiring to the tavern to talk and laugh beneath the smoky eaves, whilst the goodwives tended their children and tucked them in for thenight.
Not so out here. Freyja had been raised on these rugged slopes, beneath the looming volcanic mountain of Krafla. In the distance its constant plume of smoke seemed almost invisible against the grayclouds.
Still, its presence was more than felt. Freyja crossed herself. “Blessed Father, watch over us,” she murmured, glaring at the mountain. “Letdrekisleep anothernight.”
The small flock of ewes must have sensed the ominous press of the storm, for they were at the woven stick fence, bleating to be let into the small barn. Two snowy white lambs with black markings peered at her from beneath one old ewe. Despite her mood, Freyja couldn’t help asmile.
Loki watched them with avid interest, licking at his cheeks with his long pinktongue.
Don’t you dare. She snapped the thought at him and he sat down obediently, giving her a sly, long-sufferinglook.
It took little effort to draw the small herd into the barn, coaxing them into the separate stalls. Her boots shuffled over the thin straw, the air still and musty here. One pen remained empty and she hurried back outside to fetch the battered old ram from his ownpaddock.
