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They're hospitable to Beorn; he brought things to trade, after all.

Øg and I are empty-handed. No. I wriggle around and manage to pull Øg into a tight hug. We can't be thrown out now. We'd die on our own.

We have to work our way into their favor no matter what, until my family finds me.

They're killing animals today, because we won't have enough food around in winter to feed them all. Their meat will be dried, and we'll chew on it in winter's harshest months. It's not winter yet by any means. But everyone says the rains are coming—which is strange to me, because it seems to rain here most of the time, just as in Eire. But apparently it's soon going to rain and not stop, just rain, rain, rain for two or three months. And it's best to dry the meat in the sun—so we have to do it while there are still sunny days ahead.

Besides, Beorn is here—we have to take advantage of that. Thorkild and Thorsten need him to help with the slaughtering, because Thora's husband, Karl, fell from an apple tree and twisted his back, so he's trying to mend. The animals—two goats and a cow—have to be skinned and gutted and cut into quarters before the women can slice thin pieces to hang from the racks Thorsten built. It takes lifting and lugging.

They're also killing a pig today, but not to dry. Pigs
have a lot of fat, and fat goes rancid if you dry the meat. So last week we collected apples from the two trees behind the barn and squashed some to ferment into vinegar. The pork will be pickled in that vinegar.

It doesn't really bother me that the goats and that pig will die. The animals have been left outside since spring, day and night, like they do in Eire, except there it's year round. That means there have been no jobs in tending most of them, and that means I haven't really come to know them well, not like I knew all our animals back home. Besides, I'm no baby. I'm nearly nine. I understand how life works. I understand that some have to die in order for all the others to live.

Killing that cow, though, that's different. The cows are milked twice a day, and once my hand healed, I proved to be the best at milking. It's not that I have especially strong hands—I don't. Nor that I have some special technique with my hands—I don't. It's that I talk with the cows. I whisper in their ears. I rub them in the direction their hair whorls, and I put my eye right up to theirs and blink. I scratch them under the chin and call them by name. They didn't have names before and they sort of still don't, since no one knows their names except me, because I'm the one who named them. They're happy around me, and they give their milk freely to me. I can fill a bucket higher and faster than anyone.

The cow that's going to die is Ciaran. My sweet little friend Ciaran. She's old now, and there are two milkers younger than her and a new girl calf who seems strong and promises to contribute a lot eventually. Ciaran gives hardly any milk these days. After I first heard them talking about how useless she was, I started pouring milk from the other cows' buckets into hers. But Thorsten caught me doing it and told. Besides, even if Ciaran was producing more, she's the oldest, and they all prefer goat and sheep milk to cow milk anyway. So I couldn't save her. She's doomed.

When they asked me to gather the animals for killing and put them in the barn to wait their turn, I refused. I won't have any part in it. Thorkild looked angry at first, but then he flapped me away with his hand, saying I was more trouble than I was worth.

I went cold at those words—he says them too often—but I looked around and it seemed no one else had heard them. I don't want his attitude toward me to spread. They have to keep me until my family finds me. I rub the scar on my palm; they have to keep me and Øg both. In the meantime, I must make myself tolerable.

Still, I won't help kill the cow Ciaran. I won't watch the slaughter. So I've volunteered to help Randolf gather the honey today, despite the fact that I don't like her one bit. No one volunteers to gather honey because it's a nasty job; it's
easy to get stung. When we get back, I'll hand the brimming honey pot to Thora, and she'll remember I'm a value to the farm and maybe even Thorkild will notice.

I don't want Øg to watch the killing either, so I'm bundling him along with us.

The three of us are swathed head to foot in woolen strips, to keep out the bees. Øg rides on my shoulders—which is getting harder for me, because he's growing fast. But when Randolf offered to carry him, I snatched him quick and swung him up. I have to hold on to his chubby legs with both hands so he doesn't fall off backward.

Randolf carries a pot of smoking pine needles in one hand and an empty pot in the other. A knife tucks into her belt on one side, and from the other side hangs the pouch I prepared with a toy for Øg.

The bees live in hollowed-out logs way at the other end of the meadow. We march around the cabbage patch and through the grazing animals. I wonder if these ones know how lucky they are today. Will they miss their companions? Out in the meadows it must be easy for them to lose track of one another. Maybe they won't even realize there are fewer of them.

When we're still a sensible distance away from the hives, I set Øg on the ground. Randolf puts down the pots and digs around in the pouch. She takes out a smooth
crescent of something white and brown that looks like horn but it's solid, not hollow, and hands it to Øg, who immediately gums it.

I didn't put that crescent thing in the pouch. “Give him the doll,” I say.

“He likes this toy.”

“He has two hands—he can hold the doll in the other hand.”

“Don't be stubborn, Alfhild. He'll be perfectly fine like he is.”

“I take care of him more than you do.”

Randolf looks away and purses her lips. But she takes the bone doll out and holds it toward Øg, who quickly tries to shove it in his mouth alongside the crescent.

“See?” I say. “He likes it.”

“He likes the other better.”

“What have you got against little Gudrun's doll?”

“Nothing. It's just . . .” Randolf puts her hands on her hips. “The antler's mine. It was my toy as a baby. I brought it with me.”

That crescent is part of an antler? Deer in Eire don't have antlers anywhere near that thick. I've seen deer here—they're not enormous. One variety is tiny. But the deer that grew that antler must have been enormous. “Where did you come from, Randolf?”

“It doesn't matter. It was a long time ago.” She rolls the wool swathing back from her hands, so she's bare from above the wrist to her fingertips. “Let's get to work.”

“But your hands will get stung.”

“With the cloth on, I'd be too clumsy. I'd upset the bees and get stung a lot worse. Move slowly.” She lifts a swath of cloth from around my neck to across my mouth. “Don't let them sense your breath or they'll sting you bad.” She covers her own mouth.

For a moment I think of turning back. But this family loves honey nearly as much as Irish people do. And Irish people adore it. My brother Nuada tells a tale about King Lir long ago. His wicked wife turned her stepchildren into swans, and the girl, Fionnuala, cried all the time, remembering the wonderful mead made from golden honey and crushed hazelnuts. Everyone loves honey. So if I do this today, they'll all be grateful. I raise the cloth so it covers my nose as well.

We go to the logs on stealthy feet. Randolf swings the pot with the smoking pine needles around the holes. Then she hands it to me and nods. So I swing it just like she did. I swing and swing, walking from hole to hole. The bees gradually seem to realize something's up. They go on alert. They crawl around the brown, dripping honeycombs, eating like mad. They gorge themselves. I wonder if there will
be any left for us at all. And the whole while, I have to keep swinging the smoldering pot. My arm aches.

Finally Randolf stays my arm and pushes me gently aside. She reaches one hand inside a hole to steady a honeycomb, and with the knife in her other hand, she cuts off a slice and places it in the empty pot at her feet. The bees hardly react. There are five hives in all, and Randolf cuts a piece off the honeycomb in each one. I watch because I want to understand. It seems she's avoiding the parts of the honeycomb that contain larvae. This way the hive will have a next generation. And taking only part of the honeycomb means the bees will still have plenty to eat through the winter. How smart this is. I wonder if this is her own method—if she figured it out herself.

A bee crawls on Randolf's hand. She stops moving. But I can tell from the sudden stiffness in her shoulders that the bee stung her anyway. She doesn't jerk away, though. She just waits. Then she carefully slices off a part of the honeycomb she's holding.

Randolf finishes and backs away slowly. I go with her.

Some bees follow the honey pot, but few. And they move lethargically, as though they're heavy, satiated with their own honey. It's still the middle of morning, and we've finished our work. Randolf is efficient, and I'm duly
impressed. And the fact that she hasn't complained at all about that sting forces respect.

A shriek comes! It's Øg. The screams sound as if he's dying!

I run to him. The poor babe has somehow managed to get from the spot I planted him into a dense growth of stinging nettles.

Randolf runs to him too. And that sends what bees remain in pursuit into a frenzy. They go for her bare hands.

Randolf's shouting and slapping at her hands, and Øg's sobbing and pressing his already reddened hands into his mouth, and I'm the only one not burning with stings. I pick up Øg and yell, “The water,” and we're running for the fjord as fast as we can go.

We splash down among the tall grasses at the edge, and I rub Øg all over with soothing mud, while Randolf dives underwater and swims and swims. Then I lie in the shallows with Øg.

When we're finally all three together again, Randolf laughs. Øg looks at her in surprise and then he laughs, though big tears still cling to his cheeks. What can I do but laugh?

We climb out of the shivery water, and I strip Øg and hang his clothes to dry from a tree branch. I do the same for myself. Then I turn to Randolf. “You might as well. I already know you're a woman.”

So Randolf strips and hangs her clothes to dry. It's funny to see how thin she is without all those clothes. I bet she's only fifteen—Mel's age.

We lie in the sun, protected from the wind by low bushes. Øg crawls back and forth over me, as though I'm his warming rock. At last he tires and falls asleep, half on my belly, half in the grass. Randolf is asleep too. I blow thick kisses into the soft part of Øg's arm, up near the shoulder, then close my eyes. Time is passing. I feel half-grown already.

“A dream come true.”

The voice startles me.

“Don't be afraid. I thought a swim would refresh me.” Beorn stands there, wearing only a cloth wrapped around his waist. His chest and arms glisten with water. His hair drips on his shoulders. The dog Vigi noses his way around us. “Slaughtering always makes me feel like I need to do something . . . different . . . afterward, you know? Something to remind me I'm still alive.”

We just look at him.

Beorn shrugs and walks over. “Maybe I'm not making much sense. I feel like I'm dreaming.” He sits at Randolf's feet.

Her knees are pulled tight to her chest. Her arms encircle them. A visible tremor goes through her.

“I watched you last night. I was drawn to you in a way that confused me. I tossed and turned all night long, wanting . . . I couldn't fathom what. Now I know why.”

Randolf's eyes are wide with fear.

“Don't tell,” I say.

Beorn looks at Randolf, not me. “Why the secret?”

Randolf shakes her head.

“If you expect me to keep a confidence, then you have to give the confidence.”

Randolf sucks her top lip inside her bottom teeth. I know she's trying to keep from crying.

“Being a girl isn't a crime.” Beorn wipes the water off his nose with the back of his hand. “So are you hiding from someone? Is that why you're playing a boy? Is that it?”

Randolf gives a single nod.

“Tell me. I want to know the whole thing. Breathe deep, then talk.”

“I was taken, as a girl.”

Beorn lowers his head toward her. “Taken?”

I'm straining forward too. My heart speeds. I was taken.

“I was pulling in crab traps by the water. And a ship came by and they took me. Just took me. Across the sea. And sold me to a family.”

“A slave ship.” Beorn's lip curls. “You were a Norse girl?”

“Yes.”

“From Nóreg, like me?”

“No. I'm not sure where I came from, but I know it wasn't that far north.”

“It doesn't matter. You are good Norse stock.” He seems comforted by that thought.

I will never tell him where I came from.

All at once Beorn frowns. “And a Norse family bought you?”

“Yes.”

“Most Norse families don't have the money to buy a slave.”

“The fully grown girls were the expensive ones—especially if they were pretty. I was little. I cost little. And the family needed extra hands.”

“Did . . .” Beorn clears his throat. “Did the family mistreat you?”

Randolf shuts her eyes. She buries her face in her knees.

“Tell me.”

“They were good to me. Until I grew up, and the father . . .” Randolf talks into her knees. “When I realized I was with child, I knew the mother would turn me out. It would break her heart. And ruin the family.” She's whispering now. “So I ran away.”

“Disguised?”

“As a man, I could work in exchange for a home, and no one would expect . . . more.”

“So you came here, to these people.”

“It wasn't far. The settlement the family lived in was just on the other side of the Limfjord. I walked for three days—that's all—and I found this farm.”