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I force myself to put my hand on Egill's arm. He jerks to his full height. It is all I can do to keep from shuddering. “We can talk. We must talk. But not now. I have a secret, Egill, but it's not what you think. And neither Ástríd nor Beorn knows it.”

“Tell me.”

“Not now. The telling will be long. They're waiting.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“I'm exhausted, Egill. I cut peat all day. I'll need to rest tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, or I will tell Beorn my suspicions tonight.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

I disentangle myself from sleeping Búri's arms, gather my clothes and pouch, and creep to the door. Vigi stirs. I exhale onto the dog's eyes. He gives a
humph
and lets his head fall back onto the floor. But now I realize I can't leave the others without a farewell too.

Alof has thrown off the covers in her sleep, and her clothing has bunched around her chest. I rub my nose along the soft skin of her back. Then I bend over Búri and flutter my eyelashes against his cheek. I blow kisses to Ástríd and Beorn, across the room.

I grab my cloak off the hook and open the heavy door just enough to slide out, so the whipping wind won't enter. There's no moon, the clouds are so dense. I move as quickly as I can without stumbling and go all the way to the river before I stop to dress. I'm thoroughly chilled. It was stupid not to dress before going outside, but I feared disturbing their sleep; if they woke, they'd try to follow. They'd want to protect me.

I want to protect them, too. So I'm leaving. This way they don't have to face people's
condemnation for harboring a foreigner who isn't their slave. And I don't have to put them through the agony of figuring out how they feel about having an Irish girl in their home.

When Egill returns in the morning and sees I'm gone, he may keep his mouth shut. After all, there's nothing to gain from exposing me now. But if he should talk, it won't matter, because I'll be gone and people will think that Beorn and Ástríd cast me out when they discovered the truth. They will be exonerated in the eyes of Ribe folk.

Egill always said I'd regret taking in the monk. He's doing his best to make it so. I don't like the idea of regret. It's stupid to wish you'd done otherwise. You can't change the past. All you can do is learn from your actions, so you make good decisions in the future.

Besides, who can regret saving a life?

I find a small boat, and I paddle across the river. I wish I could leave the boat in the open on the far shore, so that the owner will see it and get someone to ferry him across to fetch it. But then he'd figure out it was me who did it, and they'd know which way I'd gone. So I hide it in the scrub. It might not be found for days.

I know exactly where I'm going. I've known it since Beorn first talked about the big slave market: I'm going to Heiðabý. South and east of here, over the ridge. If Mel
was sold as a slave, there's a good chance it happened in that town.

I don't know how far it is—several days at least. There's a path along the river that goes east, and if I walked on it, the going would be easier. But I'd risk meeting travelers who would know I came from Ribe; there's no other town around. And they would talk of me when they got to town. A girl alone is a phenomenon. People in Ribe would realize it was me. No one must know where I've gone—neither enemy nor friend.

So I note the wind direction. As the rising sun warms the land, winds go any direction. But at night, winds blow toward the sea, which is due west. Sailing with Beorn taught me that. Since it's night, I assume this wind is going west, and I head southeast across meadows, through beech forests.

If somehow the winds change course before sunrise, I can still know which way is east by following the slope of the land. Uphill means I'm moving away from the sea—eastward. It's only a slight incline right now, because I'm traveling on a diagonal, but it's there. The road we took from the north ran along a high ridge. If I keep going uphill, I'll find that road eventually.

I am aware that by listing all these cautions and all the things I know, I am trying to calm myself. I hate being vulnerable
again. And I'm furious at Egill. And more furious at myself. How on earth could he have followed the cart close enough to hear Papi's words and my laughter without my sensing he was there? Inexcusable. The only way to be safe is to be constantly vigilant. I learned that at eight. Here I am, twelve. I have no excuse.

And I'm crazy at the fact that I'm leaving the four people I have come to love so tenderly. Grief hammers inside my head. But I knew I'd leave them in a few years. My mission nags at me. I must find Mel. We will go back to Eire, to the family that still aches for us. We'll go together.
Immalle.

Still, I'm too young to be on my own yet. That means I have to find another family to worm my way into for a few years. With Beorn and Ástríd it happened by accident; I didn't design it. I don't know how to design such a thing. But I can learn. And I'll be in Heiðabý, at least; the right place to start looking for her once I'm old enough.

I took nothing with me but a pouch of food. I thought of taking the amber in Beorn's personal chest. I gave it to him as payment for Papi's upkeep, but now that Papi found bog iron, he has paid his own upkeep. So the amber should be mine again. But I couldn't talk with Beorn about that without him sensing that I needed the amber, and then he might have guessed I was planning on leaving. And I couldn't
simply take it; that might have left him feeling robbed. I want him to feel he gained from having me. I want the loss of me to sear him.

What a proud and an unchristian thought.

Papi didn't feel he had to justify his upkeep. He was prepared to be fed forever and do nothing in return. Before, I saw that as selfishness, but now I think it's humility.

I could never be that humble. That's why the only thing in my pouch is food. Cod: I caught it and preserved it with salt from seaweed I gathered. Cabbage: I planted, tended, and harvested it, then I rolled the leaves tight and buried them in sand for keeping. Onions: I stored them in hay in the animal room. I didn't take cheese, because Ástríd makes the cheese all by herself. I didn't take smoked ham, because Beorn does the smoking all by himself.

I should have. It would have been a gift to them to let them know they were taking care of me even far away. I cheated them of that small consolation. I'm mad at myself for being so stingy with them, so mean-spirited.

Good. Anger keeps me from being too afraid. I don't like walking alone at night. I don't like the unfamiliar sounds around me. It's undoubtedly just animals scurrying about, more frightened of me than I am of them. But still I hate it. Plants scrape at my ankles. Now and then
branches smack my arms or face. A few times I stumble over big rocks because it's just so dark.

Gradually, though, the world around me assumes shape. The sun rises, setting a meadow of heather aflame. I cry at how glorious it is. Well, that's ridiculous. I'm too old to cry at something like that. It's just because I'm so anxious that seeing something beautiful overwhelmed me. I have to act sensible. Mature. It's morning. What can make things feel more normal?

Breakfast. Of course. I reach into my pouch and walk along eating cod and onion. I wipe my nose and mouth with grasses that I yank without stopping. Food cheers me up. I walk all morning, through the afternoon, all evening. Whenever I have an unobstructed view, I turn in a circle to spy first whatever can spy me. I pass a spring and slake my thirst with the sweetest water ever. Birds perch on top branches of shrubs. Their backs and wings are orange, their heads gray with a black mask over the eyes. I make a game of sighting them. They've come to breed. They must be disappointed at spring's tardiness, but they don't show it. Good for them.

I walk until I see a doe. That little kind that stands no taller than my waist, gold in the setting sun, with a gray face and a white rump patch. She should be in the forest, blending with ash and maple trunks. What made her venture out?
She lifts her head and freezes at the sight of me. But she doesn't bark. Maybe she senses I'm no danger, or maybe there are no others nearby to warn. Her belly is round. I hope she doesn't birth out here, unprotected.

I walk and wonder if the doe watches, but I won't look back in case that alarms her. I walk until a giant flock of starlings blacks out the sun before settling for the night in the field around me. Hundreds of birds, thousands. All noisy. But noise feels good now, cozy. And I realize that stopping here, surrounded by the birds, is a good idea. I need to sleep somewhere or I'll be too stupid to take proper care of myself. And the birds are a perfect warning system if a predator comes.

It's early. Days have lengthened a lot since winter, but sunset still comes early enough that normally I wouldn't be tired. This isn't a normal day, though. Exhaustion sweeps over me the instant my bottom hits ground. I finish the onion and another corner of cod and stretch out, wrapped in my cloak. I miss Alof's sticky hands and hot breath, the new lankiness of Búri's arms and legs. The missing is so strong I feel bruised.

I should tell myself Irish stories. I remembered Cúchulainn when I was talking with Papi. Maybe I can remember others. But the only stories that come to me are Norse—rough and violent. And then I remember the story Ástríd
loves best, about Thor's one gentle spot, his love for his dazzling wife Sif. Her golden hair tumbled all the way down her back. One day after she had washed that wavy hair, she fell asleep letting it dry in the air. The mischievous god Loki sheared it off. Sif wept inconsolably for her lost beauty. So Thor made sure Loki paid for that insult. But now, in this moment, I don't like the story anymore. It feels foolish, frivolous. Ástríd can think about the sadness of losing beautiful hair because she has a home with a family around her—the important things of life are solidly in place for her. But beautiful hair means nothing to me, because I have nothing.

I close my eyes. I am alone and defenseless, with nothing but my wits. Like Mel. Where is she sleeping tonight? My chest feels so heavy, it's a wonder I still breathe.

*  *  *

I wake with the birds, of course. Noisy, noisy. Another day of walking, eating only as much as necessary, drinking my fill, this time in a muddy wetlands—which is fine; it helps to make me appreciate the gift of clear streams. Contrasts are good.

Sometimes my fingertips feel Alof's and Búri's soft skin again, and my eyes leak.

I sleep under bushes this next night, without the comfort of birds. It's a restless night. Every noise makes me flinch.

Toward the middle of the third day I see people traveling across my line of sight. On horseback and with a wagon. That's the big country road for sure. At last. I would have easily reached the road a day ago if I'd taken the path. But now I'm much more south of where I would have been if I'd done that, so that's good. I watch: a man, another man, a third man. My heart clutches. I hear Ástríd warning me inside my head. I sink to my knees.

But they continue past. Out of sight.

Still, I remember now. When Mel and I rode the horse along the coast south of Downpatrick, the slave ship passed us. Then it came back, when we weren't suspecting.

I search for stones until I find the largest two that will fit in my fists. I run, looking around everywhere, everywhere. No one will come back and find me unsuspecting. No one will hunt me down easily.

When I get to the road, I cross it and run beyond until no one can spot me from the road. Then I turn south. The smell of ocean is strong. Seagulls scream. Even the air feels different; there's a closeness to it, whereas west of the ridge it felt open. It's like the sea pulls me, would swallow me. I see water in the distance. And that dot—is that a seal head?

I walk till night, then finish the cabbage, the last of my food. I curl under a bush and try to remember details of Mel. It's
hard. How soon will I forget those I've left behind in Ribe? Everyone I love, I lose. But I refuse to lose memories. I make lists of the way Mel walked tall and straight, the way Ástríd shakes her hair free at night, everything I can remember, everything I must remember. I fall asleep making lists.

Hunger wakes me early. It's raining gently, which means I can forage for wild roots in the soft earth, but not with these stones filling my hands. I set them down reluctantly, feeling as though I'm yielding my only defense. But there's a stick on the ground—a sturdy one. I can dig with it, and if anyone should approach me, I can swing it like a club.

The rain soaks me, but I don't care. My Irish bones need this familiarity. And I'm still hungry. A patch of wood sorrel beckons. I eat it on all fours like a beast. The sour taste brightens me. I look up. In the distance I see the tall ramparts of a big city. Heiðabý. Already.

The rain comes harder now. There's a stand of trees nearby. I run for it. A stream rushes through alders and oaks. I take shelter under a wide oak and squat by the trunk. My pouch is empty, my stomach is empty, and apparently my head is empty: I have no plan.

The rain goes on for hours, and the oak is no match for it. No tree would be a match for this deluge. The drops drive
through the new leaves and splatter on my head and back.

When it finally stops, I walk along the stream, a soggy, sorry mess, dragging the stick beside me. It isn't sharp enough to spear fish with. It's stupid. I'm stupid.

The stick catches on something. How annoying. I yank. A rope comes with it. Muddy, sunk in the muck. And very old, by the looks of it. I pull, using the stick to dig it free. One end goes to the bottom of an alder trunk. The rope runs so deep under the ground, it must have been tied to the tree base years ago, and leaves piled up and turned to dirt, burying it deeper and deeper. I follow the rope in the other direction. It goes to the stream! My heart thumps.
Please, let it be a mussel rope. Please.
My mouth waters.