Then Ylva appeared carrying a bridal crown.
It was made of twisted wires of gold and silver strung with pieces of polished amber the same color as my eyes. Ylva herself fastened it to my braids with endless tiny pins. She turned me to face a round piece of polished metal so that I might see my appearance, the servants all smiling and laughing, pleased with their efforts.
“Finally,” Ylva breathed. “Finally, you look like a child of the gods.”
I stared at my reflection, feeling as though I stared into the eyes of a stranger.
Ylva placed a mantle of gleaming white fur over my shoulders, my braids almost indistinguishable in color as she smoothed them over the expensive pelt. “Snorri will be pleased.” Then she snapped her fingers. “Gloves. She must be perfection.”
All eyes immediately moved to my right hand, and I fought the urge to hide my scarred fingers in the pocket of my dress, not sure what was worse, disgust or pity—only that I hated both. So I voiced no argument when one of them handed me a pair of white wool gloves, feeling no sensation in my right palm as I pulled them on.
Numb.
The crack Geir’s leg had made when Snorri had broken it filled my head and I flinched, because I knew so much worse could be done.
I needed to be numb. To do what needed to be done, to say the things that needed to be said, and to be what these people wanted me to be, because those I loved most depended on my compliance.
And I refused to fail them, no matter how much it cost me.
It was snowing.
That was the first thing that struck me as I stepped out of the great hall. Snow in springtime was far from rare, but I couldn’t help but feel that the gray sky and flat light were fitting for the day. Fat flakes of white spiraled down, the narrow paths leading between homes thick with mud and slush, forcing me to hold my skirts up lest I arrive at the ceremony looking like I’d been wallowing with the pigs.
The people of Halsar came out of their homes to watch me pass, the expressions of those who met my gaze cold despite the fact all would be feasted tonight by their lord. “Your people do not seem to favor this marriage,” I said softly to Ylva, who walked at my left, her mouth drawn in an unsmiling line.
“Because they do not know the power you bring,” she said. “They see only an insult to their beloved lady of Halsar.”
I’d have rolled my eyes at her ego except that while the people scowled at me, they smiled at Ylva, touching her as she passed and offering her praise for her strength. I wanted to snarl at them that it was their jarl who had made this choice, therefore it was their jarl who deserved their ire, but it would be a waste of breath. They wanted to blame me.
“Freya!” A familiar voice reached me, and I turned my head to find Ingrid standing between two buildings, a sword clutched in her hands. Her brown hair was sodden, her freckled face pink from the cold as she stepped toward me. For a heartbeat, I was certain that she’d come to tell me not to do it. To tell me that she and Geir would accept the permanent loss of his place in Snorri’s war band if it meant sparing me this union. To tell me—
The thought vanished as a pair of warriors drew their weapons and leapt between Ingrid and me.
“Stop,” I shouted, trying to intervene, but another warrior caught hold of my arm. “She’s my friend!”
“You cannot know that for certain,” Ylva snapped. “Now that your identity is known, friends may become enemies to achieve their own ends.”
I was tempted to snap back that she needed to be more selective in her friendships, but one of the men had Ingrid by the arm, the other right up in her face. Twisting, I kicked the man holding me in the knee, ignoring his shouts as I stormed toward my friend, mud splattering the skirt I’d tried so hard to keep clean. “Let her go! Now!”
The men made no move to unhand Ingrid. I wasn’t certain if it was because they didn’t recognize my authority or if they believed that Ingrid, who was timid as a mouse and could barely wield a cooking knife without cutting herself, was truly a threat.
“Let the woman go.”
I tensed at Bjorn’s voice, for I’d not realized he’d been part of the procession. Though I was glad he was when the warrior holding Ingrid immediately complied with his order.
“It is not your place to involve yourself, Bjorn,” Ylva snapped. “Already Freya has been injured while in your care.”
Leaning against a wall, Bjorn disregarded the comment and said, “If Freya says this woman is a friend, then you should believe her, Ylva. Or do you not trust the woman you’re about to share your husband with?”