A Most Precious Gift
When I returned to my bedroom after Augustin had gone, I found Freia knitting a fresh pair of woolen socks in the soft glow of our nightly candlestick. She looked up when I shut the door behind me and leaned against it. “Swanie?” Her relieved expression shifted into one of concern as I blinked at her, my fingers gripping the door at my back. My ice had begun to seep outward from my blood. I could feel it crusting upon the wood beneath my fingertips.
I could not fathom how to answer her. My heart pattered swiftly beneath my nightdress, as though in rebellion against that sinister priest’s demands. Images of Ina and Walfrid at their wedding swirled in my mind, mingling with Fonsi’s anger: I’m like one hundred percent sure that the bastard bound her the day they met. I
