The master rose soon after I’d recovered from my embarrassment, so I prepared a quick and easy meal with fruit from the orchard and leftover vegetables from last night’s meal. He didn’t say a word when Sif and I delivered it to the table, which was his way. He stuck to the traditional master and servant boundaries, and so we were beneath his notice. The mistress joined him for breakfast, with Torsten at her side. I didn’t look in her direction, but I could feel her gaze as I set the master’s plate before him. She had undoubtedly noticed the return of my yellowing cap, the very same that Sif wore.

We dropped our heads and skulked back to the kitchen, as was the custom here at Riverfell Hall, closing the door softly behind us. Sif usually got a great kick out of putting force into it to irritate the master, but she daren’t step a toe out of line while the mistress was here. I doubted she was half as precious about keeping the hall as silent as a grave as her humourless husband. It was probably best not to test it, though.

As I cleaned up after myself, Sif flopped on her bed, face-down. She groaned and rolled over to stare up at the ceiling. I glanced over my shoulder at her, curious. What had elicited such a reaction? She caught my eye and sighed, frustrated.

‘The mistress came to speak to me when I was tending to the horse.’ She said, her voice flat. ‘She wants me to go into town for a while. To keep my ear to the ground.’

I turned back to my cleaning. ‘Shouldn’t you be happy? You’ll have more time with your family.’

‘Not really. I’d like to see Freya and Einar, but that husband of mine…’ she cringed.

‘You should get a divorce.’ I suggested, not for the first time.

‘And leave the children parentless for longer than they already are?’ She shook her head against the furs piled on her bed. ‘I am lucky to have a husband that works hard, at least. But being a trader, he has to travel. And, well, we rarely see the money he makes.’

Finished with the cleaning, I sunk into my bed. It was across the opposite side of the room from hers, and tucked away beside the pantry. Although Sif had unabashedly complained to the master about not having proper servants quarters, I liked being in the kitchen. It was fragrant and, perhaps most importantly, heated.

‘It will only be a few days.’ I said.

‘It could be. I don’t really know how long it will be. The mistress asked me to ask around for some information. About what, I don’t really know myself. Seems she’s chasing myths.’

‘Dragons and draugr?’ I smiled.

‘Something like that.’ She grinned. ‘Let’s talk no more of such depressing things. Though I would like to address the matter of the mistress’s apparent favouritism.’ It was now my turn to flop back and stare at the ceiling. ‘Well, you can’t expect me to take this lying down. She sends me away for an indeterminate amount of time and then frolics off to plait your hair. What did you do?’

I laughed, but it came out sounding awkward. I didn’t know myself, and it made me nervous. Eventually I answered, ‘she did say she liked my cooking.’

‘Pah. Food. I have no chance.’ She dismissed the conversation then, and got to her feet. ‘I suppose we should make ourselves look busy. Have you got everything for their meals?’

I sat up and nodded. ‘We have to sort the clothes though. I can mend any holes if you want to wash them?’ Although she grumbled, she agreed to this plan. She wasn’t much good at sewing, either.

*

I sat on one of the stumps outside the hall, one of Torsten’s trousers on my lap, torn from his training with Glyrna. I didn’t mind sewing. It wasn’t as enjoyable as cooking, but it kept my hands busy and allowed me some time to myself, outside in the fresh air. It was the simple pleasures here, where I couldn’t just take a trip into town or spend my time like Torsten, reading tomes or playing at knight.

My fingers were numb from the cold, but that didn’t matter. I was well-practised in my work. Sif had often commented on my speed and precision, and didn’t believe me when I said it was just a matter of practise. She hated anything she had to spend time learning. That was Sif, impatient and restless.

I took a break before moving onto the next item. It was not Torsten’s - it was a tunic I didn’t recognise. It must be the mistress’s. I held it for a long time in my hands, staring down at the worn fabric and running my fingers over the soft sleeves. In places, the cotton material was threadbare. It had been torn. At first, I feared it was from a knife wound. But as I inspected it and discovered the weakened threads around it, I realised it was only its age. I felt a strange sense of relief.

There was also a strange part of me that wanted to smell it. My eyes widened at the thought and I froze, fingers stiff. What had come over me?

I ignored the compulsion. Though I wanted nothing more than to bury my face in the unwashed fabric, I stubbornly picked up my needle and thread and set to work. I kept my attention on my stitching, humming absentmindedly over the clanging of blunt training swords and her distant voice from the paddock.

She was teaching Torsten. He was like a puppy when it came to his mother. Unconsolably sad and dejected without her attention, boundlessly excited when he got it. I supposed that was normal for a boy whose mother was loving and encouraging. He missed her.

Meanwhile, the master was in his library, reading hefty old books that gave him no practical knowledge. I’d peeked into the pages of these books and confirmed these suspicions for myself. Though no one else in the house knew I could read, I’d taken a good look when I was in there cleaning. He was truly a scholar, and a wealthy one at that, for no one without money could afford to spend their days staring at such senseless drivel. Some of the better tomes, filled with alchemical knowledge and historical learnings, were covered in a powdery sheet of dust.

Perhaps if I had been raised here, and experienced a calm and sheltered childhood, I would have discovered meaning in their frail pages. The master was simply cut from a different cloth. As was everyone, I’d found. No one had an upbringing quite like mine.

‘Here,’ a heavy weight was gently lowered on my shoulders, ‘you must be cold.’

My humming ceased and I glanced up from my sewing. I hadn’t noticed that the clashing had stopped. She had placed a thick, fur cloak around me - her own cloak, that was radiating her heat. She was smiling. But she looked… almost sheepish. Almost. She was an intimidating woman, more of a bear than livestock, so it was hard to tell.

I reached up to take off her cloak, then thought better of it and pulled it closer. ‘Thank you, my lady,’ I said, softly.

Her smile was warmer. She lowered herself into a kneel beside me and watched as I hesitantly continued my work.

‘I heard you humming.’ She said, her voice gentle. ‘I didn’t recognise the tune.’

I quietly continued stitching, starting to smile to myself. She watched my face, her eyes as sharp as a wolf’s.

‘Do you sing?’

‘I wouldn’t know any of the songs you know.’ I replied, keeping my answer vague.

‘I’m sure you do.’ She said, her smile widening. When I didn’t say anything, she added, ‘you must know songs from the inns. I have travelled far, so I’ll likely know some of them.’

I shook my head once. ‘No, I didn’t learn any songs from the inns.’ I said.

‘Where did you learn them?’

I didn’t reply.

She laughed. ‘All right, all right. Would you sing one?’

‘You wouldn’t be able to understand it, my lady.’ I realised how rude that may have sounded, so I quickly added, ‘I mean to say, it’s not in our native tongue.’

Despite her scars and fine lines, her amazement was childlike. ‘I would like to hear it.’

I felt a nervous stirring in my gut, but I put down my sewing and stood, tucking my red hands into the confines of the cloak. She stayed crouching by the stump, one knee supporting her weight, watching my back as I took a few steps away. It felt too personal. I couldn’t be near her, neither could I look at her.

I looked out at the forest and the mountains beyond as I took a deep breath and released a shaky first note. I took another deep breath, closing my eyes for a moment, and continued. She stayed quiet, listening attentively. But she didn’t stay still. She rose to her feet and stood beside me. I fought with my instinct to shy away.

Her eyes were on my face. Her silent breath was audible. Her body was close to mine.

Yet I sang. Strange words that were all too familiar. Unpleasantly so. They reminded me of desolate winters, wet knives and glowing amber eyes. Yet her rapt gaze, so wonder-filled and unbreaking, made me feel anew. What was it about her that made me feel so young, filled with nervous energy and keen to please? Was it her eyes, that seemed to be on me always, whenever I crossed through the hall, whenever I left the hall, even now, as I sang for her the sweetest melody that I knew, despite the poison that tainted it? Was it her face, that was hard to look at and yet hard not to, with its strong jaw, strong cheekbones and strong brow, its lines and grazes that told me she was even stronger still, with its tan as brown as cinnamon and as uneven over her body as though she’d rolled in it? Was it the pale skin on her forearms, that peeked out below her sleeves whenever she raised her arms and hid shyly away whenever they were lowered, a precious secret that could only be seen by those she deemed worthy or trusted implicitly?

Her husband, then. My thoughts raced with my heart until I remembered the master in his fine, well-kept clothes and with his head bent over an ancient book, reading words that would give him no true fulfillment. The man who treated her with passive aggression and seemed a selfish lover, loud just to cover for his inability to please her. Who treated anyone else as he might treat a stray mutt, with revulsion and impatience. Who had a weak jaw that trembled at the first sign of impertinence, with small, beady eyes that squinted at noises above a murmur, and hair that was only blonde from the very specific soap he liked to have delivered to the hall.

Stolen story; please report.

How I wished I’d taken in the scent of her tunic, just so I could feel that I knew her. To know what she smelt like, to know that I’ll never be close enough to her to take it from the heat of her throat or the softness of her chest. To know what her sweat smelt like, what it perhaps even tasted like… in that moment, I could think of nothing I wanted more.

The song came to an end. I made the last note longer, just to keep her silver gaze on my face. I wanted to bask in it forever, and yet I wanted to hide. Such contradicting feelings made my stomach curdle, and my voice trembled, even though I’d recited these words more times than I cared to count. I wished I could erase all those other times, so that this memory would be the one I’d settle into should I sing it again, years later.

There was a moment of silence between us once the song had ended. She turned her face forwards, to look upon her land and see it, as a changed woman, perhaps, moved by lyrics she would never understand. Or perhaps she regretted asking me to sing, and searched for a way to dismiss herself without appearing rude and ungrateful. Not knowing made me anxious.

Finally, she turned back to me. ‘You have the most beautiful voice. More beautiful than a nightingale.’

Her earnestness caused my face to flush. I could feel it prickling over my cheeks.

‘What language was that?’

‘I don’t know, my lady,’ then I smiled in jest, ‘a magical one.’

‘It was a spell then?’ Another of her lopsided smiles. She only saw my lips turn upwards, and not the hard edge to my eyes. ‘What kind of spell, I wonder…’ She met my gaze fully, then. I think she must have seen my guard, for her face transformed from amusement to bewilderment within the beat of a crow’s wing.

She didn’t have time to ask me questions. Torsten had finished putting away the blunt practise swords, and now he was shedding his armour as he walked towards the entrance from the paddock. He saw us standing together, and invited himself to my side. He was smiling widely and his cheeks were speckled pink.

‘Helly, is there anything to eat? I’m starving.’ He dropped his chainmail at his feet and held his stomach for emphasis.

‘Of course, my lord,’ I said, airily, ‘I have bread and cheese in the pantry. I shall fetch some for you.’

He lay a heavy hand on my shoulder as he thanked me, a gesture that had never seemed so intrusive before. I made my leave, dropping my eyes from hers. I wanted her to follow me as I stepped towards the door. I wanted her to follow me into the pantry and close the door behind us, if only so that we can talk alone, in peace, though I yearned for more, so much more. A touch, her warm hand on my face, my neck, my collarbone, my breast, my stomach… everywhere. This feeling… it was new to me. I didn’t know how to deal with it. So I simply went to the pantry, got out some bread and cheese, and delivered it to him. They were still standing outside, but they were talking, and I daren’t interrupt. I was, after all, just a servant in her household. Not even a friend.

I went back to my seat on the stump instead, and picked up my sewing where I left off. I listened to them talk. I wasn’t eavesdropping, I simply wanted to hear the sound of her voice, of her laugh when Torsten reached out to lightly punch her arm, her light threat as he did it again, the two of us bathing in her happiness like I would sit in the sun, basking. Perhaps she sensed me listening, for her eyes fell on me a couple of times. I kept my eyes on the task at hand, not wanting to break the peace. Not wanting to go any further. And yet, wanting to go even further still. Even as Torsten warbled about his training and insisting she should demonstrate her skills against Glyrna, all I could think of were her tanned hands, and the rough, pale skin of her palms. I wondered what that would feel like, to have them touch my cheek or neck.

I finished with her tunic and dropped it into my basket, reaching for another garment with my other hand. Task at hand, I reminded myself. Task at hand. It was another of Torsten’s, and the longing that overwhelmed me seemed to ebb. I had no desire to touch his pungent trousers any longer than I needed to. It was the last of the damaged garments too, and then I would retreat into the kitchen to daydream as I chopped vegetables for lunch and dinner, whispering her words to myself: ‘More beautiful than a nightingale.’

When I was finished, I dumped his trousers into the basket and stood up to head to the river, where Sif would still be washing the rest of the clothes. Both Torsten and his mother glanced up as I passed them by, and I heard the mistress start to say something. She was interrupted by her son though, with his mouth full of bread, ‘what’s for lunch today, Helly?’

I glanced up, adjusting my grip on the basket and hefting it higher. It wasn’t heavy, just awkward, yet the lady stepped forwards and took it from me. She was close to me for a moment, her silver eyes on mine, as she eased it from my arms. ‘Allow me.’

I wanted to protest, but I was breathless. And I certainly couldn’t challenge the mistress of the house. It wasn’t my place. Instead, I dropped my gaze and answered Torsten, hoping she wouldn’t notice my trembling voice, ‘we have salmon today, my lord.’

He grumbled something under his breath. Fish was generally a safe bet with the master, but Torsten despised it. I’d told him I could cook for him separately during one of our conversations in the kitchen, but he shook his head. His father had instilled in him that fish was his mother’s favourite dish, and Torsten wanted to be just like his mother. One look at the lady’s face told me that she didn’t think much of salmon either. I wondered how much the master of the house had lied to keep Torsten grounded. That was how the master controlled him so well, after all - the mistress was like a weapon, her name used to threaten or manipulate should he step a toe out of line. The one thing the lord couldn’t get him to do was read with him in the library instead of devoting his time to swordplay.

I laughed, startling the both of them, and said, ‘I have some venison leftover. I can start cooking after I’ve taken the laundry to Sif.’ I stepped forward to take the basket back from the mistress, but she turned it away from me and started walking down the road. ‘My lady, you don’t need to-’

‘I want to.’ She said, over her shoulder. ‘Though you should come with me. I want to ask you some questions.’

I felt lightheaded, but I followed after her all the same. I barely knew her, and yet I felt I would follow her anywhere. I watched her back, her flowing red hair, as I scuttled after her, rushing to keep up. I wondered what her back would look like without the hindrance of her tunic. Would she have scars there too? Would the skin there be paler than her face? I had tried not to gape when I saw her in the river yesterday, but I wished I had, just to have seen her, to have known her that bit more.

She had questions for me - and I had questions for her, too. I had so many questions, and all had the same answer. She would either turn to me and take me, or keep her back forever turned to me. At least then this uncertainty would end. Alas, I wasn’t ready to ask yet. I didn’t want to ask. She was married, and she was my mistress. And all that besides… we were women.

Even so, I still wondered whether this was what she wanted. Whether her hands running through my hair was more than kindness, but a selfish desire that was alight in her belly and alight in mine.

Oh, how I wondered what her back would look like.

She laughed suddenly, breaking the silence between us. ‘Am I walking too fast?’

I hadn’t quite imagined this question, so I answered after a moment of hesitation. ‘N-no, my lady.’

‘Then come. Walk beside me,’ she paused and waited, smiling in her lopsided way.

I almost couldn’t bear to walk beside her. I didn’t feel I deserved to be so close to her. And yet, I wanted to be even closer. I felt dizzy with all these conflicting feelings that were all ultimately caused by the same reason. All the same, I stepped to her side, and we walked down the road together, as friends or lovers might. Imagining that I was either made my heart pound.

‘You are hard to read, Helly.’ She said, under her breath, though her smile was still upon her lips. I glanced into her face inquisitively, feeling my head cock to the side. ‘You and Torsten seem very close. Do you have any designs on my son?'

I rebuked, my eyebrows furrowed. This was definitely not one of the impassioned or tender questions I had imagined from her. She laughed at my reaction, and she sounded almost relieved. Was it because I wasn't good enough for her son? Or was it perhaps that she wanted me for herself? I scolded myself. It was probably the former. How could I not see this coming? She had misread the comradery between Torsten and I and thought she had better get to know me as a daughter. I flushed angrily at the very notion.

I scrambled to replace my expression with something neutral. 'I apologise, my lady. I mean no disrespect to the young master. I consider him a friend, that's all. He is a fine young man, just…'

'He is not to your tastes.' She provided, helpfully. When I nodded, she released a sigh, but I must have looked offended for her face transformed momentarily into one of panic. 'I am sorry, Helly, I did not mean-'

'I understand, my lady.' I said, my voice coming out flatter than I anticipated. 'I am just a serving girl.'

'No, you misunderstand.' She shook her head and raised her eyes to the sky, as though searching for the right words. None seemed to be forthcoming. She said nothing else, falling into silence after a defeated sigh.

We ambled along the road together, and yet so very far apart. What was there to misunderstand? It was all clear to me now. I had misunderstood her intentions. Not in the way that she thought, but I had misunderstood the very basis of our strange, wonderful, blossoming relationship. She saw me as her son's bride, not as a lover.

I wondered what Torsten would make of all this. He'd probably make the very same face as I did.

When we reached the river, Sif was startled to see the mistress at my side, carrying the basket. She rose to her feet as quick as an arrow shot, tripped over her words to greet her, and took the basket from her with an accusing glance in my direction. I said nothing. I had nothing to say. I felt that I would choke on my heart if I tried.

I left Sif and the mistress on the river bank, failing to keep my head high as I marched back towards the road. I heard the mistress thank Sif and dismiss herself before the gentle crunch of her boots on the undergrowth. She was following me, and picking up pace, too.

As soon as we were out of Sif's eyeline, she reached out and held onto my wrist, sending a jolt right through to my heart. I stopped in my tracks, still turned towards the road, lightheaded and trembling.

'I have wounded you,' she said, so gently it was as though she thought I would shatter, 'tell me what you're thinking. Tell me what I can do to make it up to you.' When I did not speak, she continued, 'I would be overjoyed if you were a part of my family. If you do have feelings for Torsten-'

'You misunderstand.' I interrupted, brazenly. My heart pounded in my throat and I found myself unable to say more.

Her rough hand squeezed around my wrist. It was a comforting gesture, but I was too nervous to find it reassuring. This was all moving too fast. I didn't want her to think that she had hurt me. I didn't want her pity.

'What have I misunderstood?' I heard her take another step, and felt my arm lower to my side, her warm hand still wrapped around the bare skin of my wrist. She was so close now. What was she doing?

My breath seemed so loud, all of a sudden. I felt hers on the nape of my neck, hot and even. My eyes fluttered closed and I felt myself lean back, not quite touching her, but close enough to feel a tingling along my back. She need only reach out. She need only lean in. She need only give me a sign.

But I broke away. I was embarrassed, in truth. Embarrassed that I had presented myself to her so openly, and had waited more than a few beats for her to touch me, with no such attempt forthcoming. Was she disgusted? Was she confused? Was she simply holding back for the sake of her family?

Her family, yes, how selfish of me to have forgotten the master and their beloved son, who was not yet an adult, but a mere boy playing warlord. And to think, she had thought me interested in a boy of fifteen. I was almost a decade older, and unable to bear children. Perhaps that was why she was relieved. I hadn't thought of that. But it certainly didn't make the situation any better. If any, it just made me more upset. Perhaps this was all a display of sisterhood, a show of solidarity to the woman who could not provide for a husband. It sickened me. It all sickened me.

I strode back to the house without a word. She kept her distance and I was glad. She would not see the rage that warped my face and would not ebb until I saw Torsten up ahead, watching out for our return. He need not know about any of this, I decided. I would continue with my day as normal. Next was lunch. And I would empty my mind of all thoughts to focus on the aroma of juniper berries and onions.

I nodded to Torsten as I passed him. He piped up to ask whether he could sit with me while I prepared the meal, which was now a daily routine. 'It's your house, my lord.' I had answered with that so many times. But today I shook my head and replied, as inoffensively as I could manage, 'not today.'

He knew instantly that something was wrong. I could tell from the way his smile dropped and he stole a glance behind me, at his mother. I didn't know what expression she wore, and I didn't intend to look back and find out. Instead, I went into the empty great hall and retreated to the kitchen, closing the door softly behind me.

Now then. Lunch.