Late that night, I lay beside my new husband, with my tears leaking onto the pelts. Over and over I saw Fergus fall. At least he had not been killed, I told myself.
Beside me Wulfgar slept like the dead. Wiping my wet cheeks, I rose and went to the fire. I’d woven the little flower Fergus had given me into a band I wore around my wrist. I broke the band and fed it to the fire. I couldn’t go back to the past, only forward.
“Goodbye Fergus,” I whispered, and returned to bed with my new husband, who didn’t stir.
