The Strange Maid by Tessa Gratton Page B

the west, though it’s barely past lunchtime, and we make our way along a narrow path that’s visible only because the gravel is paler in general; every once in a while a small wooden slat bridge connects it from one low hill to the next. We don’t speak, though our shoulders knock together frequently and the tattered edge of his coat flaps against my knees. My lips are chapped in seconds and my ears numb, but I imagine I can get help for such things in town. Balm and a thick scarf, mittens perhaps, since I’ve heard those keep your fingers warmer than gloves.
    I think of the Summerlings as I tromp through the slush, wondering if they’ve changed at all. Rathi had, of course, growing from a sober nine-year-old into a brilliant young preacher with his father’s golden hair and mother’s ability to read my every thought. The last time I was with him six months ago, I got a bruise on my wrist from how hard he clung to me, arguing his point faster and faster as if it would make a difference.
    But Rome and Jesca I’ve not seen in a decade. Since that final night together in their small hotel room next to the Federal Library, with a narrow view of the New World Tree. I had dinner with them at a fancy restaurant on the First Valkyrie’s coin, me jerky with excitement and them talking constantly as if that might make everything seem normal. Rathi spent the whole time silent, occasionally running fingers through floppy yellow hair.
    Rome stopped us at a corner drugstore during the walk back to the hotel and pulled a cheap black Eye of Odin charm off the shelf. He bought it and braided it into his beard beside the Freyan horses and bright red beads. You’ll be a child of both houses, Signy. Jesca had tears in her eyes but only said my mother would be so proud of my bravery.
    I said my mother wouldn’t recognize bravery if it introduced itself with song and dance. Jesca smiled a watery smile and shook her head in automatic forgiveness.
    If I were returning to them triumphant now, surely I wouldn’t feel such trepidation. It would be a wonderful homecoming, a hero’s welcome for the errant Valkyrie arriving to honor her past life, her old family. I would have titles and accolades for a shield.
    As it is, what will they think of me? I left them so hard and fast, without a second glance or thought. When Jesca kissed me goodbye and Rome pressed a Freyan hymnal into my hands, I thanked them, I smiled, but I never once looked over my shoulder for that final glimpse of their faces. I ran for the Death Hall like it was all I’d ever wanted.
    My boot slips on loose rocks and crunches into slush at the edge of the path. Unferth takes my elbow, lifting an eyebrow as if to say, Clumsy Valkyrie don’t last long.
    I jerk my arm free and stomp ahead before he guesses what I’m thinking.
    Jellyfish Cove clings to the side of the island like a sprawling checkerboard. Whitewashed houses are shining barnacles on the long slope of the bay, their scarlet and blue and yellow roofs merry splashes of color. Cobbled streets curve toward the docks, which reach long, narrow fingers into the silver-capped ocean. Boats of every size sway with the tide, some with coiled sails and some complicated by rigging for nets and metal traps. Others carry sharp seal spears raised like fangs toward the sky, and there are at least two huge sea-buses painted with tourist slogans. Though it’s so near Yule, people move around in bright coats, mostly orange and blue and red, like elf-lights in clumps and pairs. A steady stream of them leaves town along an inland road, disappearing over the hump of a hill where I can just see the flicker of pennants from the valley beyond, advertising the Viker Festival.
    Unferth leads me toward the center of town to a four-story hotel with three wings, dark brown thatching, and baby-blue shutters. The swinging, old-fashioned sign names it the Shipworm.
    Inside is warm and wood-paneled, smelling of ale and fish chowder. Unferth asks