“That’s the closest Halldor’s gotten to a smile since we met,” Oddny observed in a strange tone.
Gunnhild would often think of that moment afterward—the way Oddny seemed to soften when she said his name—for she couldn’t puzzle out why her friend was so fond of the man who’d helped ruin her life. But for now she let the matter drop.
* * *
—
THE DREAMS CAME AGAIN and again, until a few mornings later Gunnhild awoke to see Ulla crouching over her, eyes wide with concern. As always, it took her a moment to realize that she was safe in the textile workshop—which was empty save for herself and Ulla. She sagged in relief. Her linen underdress was soaked in sweat, and as soon as she sat up and shrugged the blanket off, she was cold. She’d been the only one still asleep; the other women had already cleared their bedding from the platform lining the hall, where they slept tucked around the looms.
“The dream again?” Ulla asked, troubled. “When I visit my family, I can ask our noaidi to—”
“I have things under control,” Gunnhild said. And then her words sank in. “You’re Sámi?”
“I am,” said Ulla proudly. “My family will be just over the mountain at this time of year. I’m going to see them after Yule, but I can go sooner if it would help you.”
Gunnhild almost said something to her in the language she knew, but Ulla and her kin likely spoke an entirely different one so far south—she remembered her friends in Finnmark once telling her that there were considerable differences between the Sámi tongues. The thought of Juoksa and Mielat made her heart heavy with guilt. What would they think if they could see her now, marrying the very man they’d warned her against?
But just as she’d been determined to leave her noaidi friends out of her troubles for their own safety, she would not allow Ulla’s family to become involved, either.
“Thank you, but it’s nothing. I promise.” Gunnhild raked her hand through her damp hair until it snagged on her sleep-tousled braid. “Where has Oddny gone?”
“To fetch breakfast with the others,” Ulla said. “We should clear your bedroll so we can be ready to work when they get back. And you still have your dresses to make, don’t you?”
Gunnhild looked down at the fraying cuffs of the linen dress she’d worn to sleep. “Right. You’re right.” She reached into her haversack and took out a plain, soft, undyed linen gown nearly identical to the one she was wearing, then turned to change into it. She’d never in her life had a spare linen underdress, and it was a luxury she appreciated today.
Her garments from Finnmark had officially been retired, due both to their state and to the fact that they barely fit anymore. Luckily Gunnhild had indeed sneaked back into her parents’ chamber after Solveig’s body had been removed—realizing the logic of Eirik’s ill-timed yet reasonable suggestion, not that she would ever admit as much to him—and grabbed a few of her mother’s dresses. All would’ve fit her well when she lived in Finnmark, but a few weeks of eating full meals had rendered them tight, especially as Solveig had been smaller than her to begin with. The old linen dresses had stretched with age, but the wool ones remained snug.
So when she took out a wool overdress in faded red and pulled it over her head, Ulla stepped forward without asking and helped her drag it down the rest of her body.
“Can you breathe in that?” Ulla asked, stepping back to regard her.
“I don’t have a choice.” Gunnhild hopped off the platform, the movement causing the loom weights nearest her to sway and clack gently.
Just then, Oddny entered the workshop with a bowl of porridge in her hand. She also wore one of Solveig’s old woolen gowns, this one in a garish yellow-green, which she’d hemmed to a more appropriate length for her diminutive height. “How’s your ankle, Gunna? Still all right?”
“Thanks to you,” Gunnhild said. The wound she’d sustained on the last day of the voyage a week ago had already healed to a scar of teeth marks ringing her ankle.
Darkness all around—the seal’s eyes—
Don’t. Don’t think of it.
“Good.” Oddny handed her the bowl and looked her up and down before echoing Ulla’s earlier question: “Can you even breathe in that dress?”
“Barely. I’ll have to sew myself some new ones once I’ve finished my wedding gown,” Gunnhild grumbled as she took a bite of porridge. She hated sewing, possibly more than weaving.
“You’re not finished with it? You only have a few more days!”
Gunnhild thought for a moment as she chewed and swallowed. “If I give you some silver, will you finish it? You’ve a better hand for these things than I do.”
“True. From what I’ve seen, you’re rather terrible at sewing.”
“Thank you,” Gunnhild said sarcastically. “I’ll need that confidence as I cobble together a queenly new wardrobe for myself. All that fine fabric I bought from Saeunn is about to be wasted on my pitiful skills with a needle and thread.”
Oddny thought for a moment before snapping her fingers. “I’ll sew the rest of your dresses if you give me the ones we got from your mother once I’m done.”
“Deal,” said Gunnhild, and they shook on it.
“Saeunn will probably give you a break to do it, Oddny,” Ulla said. “Gunnhild will need them sooner rather than later, what with King Harald arriving anytime now.”
“Gods, don’t remind me.” Gunnhild finished off her porridge. “With that said, Oddny, could you maybe start with the duck dress?”
“The duck dress?” Ulla repeated with interest.
Gunnhild put her bowl down, reached into her chest, and pulled out a madder-dyed diamond twill apron-dress: one of her mother’s, which Solveig must’ve worn while pregnant, for it was not only larger than the rest, but it had also sat in storage for so long that it had holes where mice and moths had gotten to it. Thankfully the damage was confined to the top and front of the garment and its linen straps. Gunnhild had already sewn new straps, but as for the rest—
“Oh dear,” said Ulla worriedly. “That dress has seen better days, hasn’t it?”
“Saeunn suggested a solution,” Gunnhild said, and from the chest she took out a panel of silk patterned with—of all things—ducks, and slapped it over the top of the dress.
At the time, Saeunn had admitted, “It was from one of my grandmother’s gowns. I always thought it looked a little ridiculous, but I held on to it. It’s probably a hundred winters old.” Though she’d gladly taken Gunnhild’s silver, she’d seemed perturbed by the future queen’s evil little giggle at the sight of the brightly colored ducks.
“See? I just have to sew it on,” Gunnhild went on when Oddny and Ulla only stared. “It covers all the damage and adds a bit of—I don’t know—”
“Absurdity?” Oddny suggested.
“Exactly. Eirik is going to hate it,” Gunnhild said gleefully.
“I will sew this on.” Oddny snatched both dress and panel from her in one fell swoop. “I don’t trust you working with silk.”