The Strange Maid (31 page)

Releasing her with a caress, I allow my dove now to gently swing, like a pendulum marking the wind. The breeze flutters her feathers and teases at my hair.

NINETEEN

THE MOMENT BALDUR’S
charity ball officially begins, I’m waiting inside the parlor of the town house. We’re to make a grand entrance about an hour into the evening, and though I’ve been dressed and pressed for quite some time, waiting is all I can do. I sit for a while at the baby grand, plunking out old nursery tunes, trying to distract myself from the whirl of thoughts spiraling endlessly behind my eyes.

Wide-winged fans drive thick air down at the crown of my head. The humidity finds every free strand and curls it against my cheeks and neck. Disir Day is midway through Blissmonth, and exactly six weeks since I sat alone on the death ship beach, watching two hundred paper lanterns rise up and up into the stars. Almost as long since Unferth died.

I tell myself his loyalties don’t matter anymore. Precia agrees the riddle itself was approved by Odin, regardless of it’s being a prophecy, too. And so what would it mean if Freya sent Ned to me? No more than that she wants me to solve the riddle, to meet my destiny. There’s no reason to think that just because she stole Baldur’s ashes and manipulated Soren’s lover, because she may be sending me dreams, that Freya wants anything nefarious from me. Ned Unferth helped me on this path to achieving my destiny; I should accept it and let go.

It’s only this niggling question in my heart: how much of Ned’s truths were lies?

Soren isn’t down yet, and I can’t think what could be taking them longer with him than they took with me. I glance at the wide-faced grandmother clock stretched tall beside the door. Five minutes past seven. The manner of this old house muffles the noise from upstairs, though I just left a maid there and saw at least one man moving in and out of Soren’s rooms.

I pace around the edge of the Oriental rug that covers a good half the floor. What is the troll mother doing now, as I’m forced to wear a fancy dress and go make nice for charity?
Where is she? Will she dream of me tonight, as I dream of her?
I put my feet down heel-to-toe and breath steadily, imagining the dark red line bordering the rug is Peachtree’s tightrope. Pedestrian noise from the Quarter outside and distant music catch a ride on the sticky breeze.

“Isn’t this a vision?” says a man in the doorway. He leans against the doorframe in a tuxedo with silver fitted vest and bow tie. Sun-yellow hair is pushed behind his ears to curl loose against his lapels, and his face is wide-open, tanned and flawless. Even without the dark foyer for contrast behind him, he’d be a beacon of sunlight.

Baldur the Beautiful smiles, pushes gracefully off the door, and comes to me with his right hand held out, palm up.

Because there’s absolutely nothing else to do, I give him mine. He raises it and bows, holding my gaze with his. His eyes are indigo, and around his pupils is a thin penumbra of dark pink. Like the sunset outside. My breath becomes sheer, too light for oxygen. Even seeing him on the pavilion at the funerals didn’t prepare me for this contact.

Baldur kisses my knuckles and flutters his lashes as he glances away politely.

It breaks my shock as he must have known it would, and I manage to squeeze his fingers. “My lord Baldur,” I say, too husky to sound like myself. He’s filling the room with bright ardor, enough to power a city.

“It’s such a pleasure, Signy of the Tree.” His smile is merry and he drops my hand, planting his on his very fine hip. “I was sorry to have missed you at the funeral.”

Despite his words, I feel as though I’ve been dropped into a summery ocean and have to relearn to breathe. Out of habit I reach for Unferth to anchor me: he’d be cutting and hard, but I can’t think of anything gloomy about the god of light.

Folding my hands before me in the semblance of calm, I reach for politeness. It’s what Jesca would’ve wanted. “Thank you for what you’re doing tonight. Vinland needs it.”

“I feel responsible,” he says, sorrow eclipsing his smile. “My absence upset so many things, and Vinland paid the price. I would that I could change that.”

I shake my head slowly. Odd-eye, he’s so beautiful and shining, but his fingers play against his thigh as if he’s nervous.

Like a man.

With a leaden tongue I say, “Sacrifice is worthwhile.”

Surprise winks across his face and he nods firmly. But immediately Baldur wipes away the brief serious note with a smile. “This dress looks amazing.”

The corner of his mouth tells me he’s flirting, and my heartbeat picks up again. “Your designer did herself proud, and I appreciate it. Without you, I’d have shown up in a hoodie and giant black boots.”

He laughs, too bright for this world.

I struggle to say “I understand you’re quite the boxer.”

“Soren’s been talking about me?” Delight pushes up his golden eyebrows. They distract me for a split second and I notice the pink is fading from his eyes. They truly carry a piece of the changing sky.

“Um, yes. Yes.” I’m hopelessly caught up in his beauty.

Empty-headed girl,
sneers Unferth.

As if he’s here, judging me, I fist my hands and say, “Lord Sun, may I ask you a thing about your father?”

Baldur the Beautiful takes my hand. His own eyes burn too brightly for me to read runes in them. “Of course.”

“Do you know … all the names of his Lonely Warriors?”

His golden eyebrows shoot up. “Ah, yes, I believe so.”

“Was there one named Unferth? Ned Truth-Teller?”

“No,” he says immediately. “Though it sounds familiar.”

“It’s also the name of a character in
The Song of Beowulf.
”

“Ah!” He claps his hands together, and just as he’s about to continue, Soren enters, saying, “Baldur, you’re here!”

The men embrace, clapping each other’s backs and grinning in the way of brothers. I take a moment to release my shaky breath, to right the world that’s tilting under my feet.

They’ve put Soren in a white uniform that mirrors the berserkers’ usual attire: double-breasted jacket with two rows of golden sunburst buttons and a narrow, high collar. The tails of his jacket are almost as full as a skirt and will look amazing if he dances. A thin stripe of yellow lines the outside of his white slacks, and his shoes are so shiny the chandelier reflects back on the toes.

He stretches his neck uncomfortably.

“You look more than worthy of being the Sun’s first Berserk,” Baldur laughs, throwing an arm around Soren again and turning them both to face me.

Focused on Soren’s familiarity, I purse my lips as if shopping. “How can I choose only one?”

“No need for that, pretty thing,” interrupts a young woman in a gown that sparkles like it’s made of a thousand shards of green glass. She slinks into the room. “I’m here for the Bearstar’s escort.”

Something in her bottle-green eyes reminds me I haven’t eaten in hours. My stomach pinches with that hunger, and when the newcomer winds her arm possessively through Soren’s, I ungraciously think she must be wearing contacts like Rathi.

Soren lets her hold his arm and doesn’t appear surprised, but shifts slightly so he’s more between her and Baldur. The woman laughs, revealing strong teeth. “I’m not here to eat him, boy.”

“I invited her,” the god of light reassures us. “Glory, meet Signy Valborn, of the New World Tree.”

Glory’s lips never lower down over those teeth as she studies me.

I hold myself still. She’s only taller because she’s wearing heels. “Glory,” I say. “Have you no epithet?”

She leans in. The hairs on my arms rise as her face envelopes my entire vision. I don’t know what stands in front of me, except that she is no real woman.
Do not quail before predators, little raven,
hisses Unferth.

“I need no epithet,” she murmurs.

“Signy.” Soren is there beside me, glowering at Glory hard enough she wrinkles her nose at him. “This is Lady Fenris.”

Fenris Wolf, daughter of Loki, destined to swallow the sun at the end of the world.

My eyes drop to her neck, where a collar woven from nine silver chains rests. The stories say those chains bind her with all the magic of the goddess Freya and the elves and goblins into this girl’s form so that she can be no danger to Baldur. He, at least, must believe it’s true.

I force myself to look past her to the god of light. As delicately as I can, I ask, “Shall I ready myself for any more divine surprises tonight?”

Glory barks a laugh, and Baldur bows apologetically as he offers his hand to lead me out. Soren catches my eye and nods once.

But then Soren always prepares for the worst.

Pretending it’s little deal to sit in a limousine whiter than ivory with two immortal beings strains even my skills at performance. I perch with my knees together and Unferth’s sword pressed across my thighs. The housekeeper handed it to me as Baldur swept me out the front door. The sheath is new, made of mirrored silver, with a chain-mail baldric I should easily buckle into.

Glory rubs her bare ankle against Soren’s calf to see him squirm and speaks to him in a rough language I suspect is the berserker wolf-tongue. Soren, when he answers at all, does so in Anglish. Based on his answers, she’s grilling him on our hunt, occasionally sliding me a wicked glance.

I peer out the tinted window at the passing Port Orleans, relishing the tingle of Baldur’s gaze. He hasn’t said anything, only sprawls in his corner with a pleasant smile.

The streets are narrow, full of people celebrating the holiday. Light seeps from every window, from the long iron balconies and streetlamps. The limo slowly curves toward the river, which is only a black void between the hotels and convention center. We turn alongside a massive green park. It’s Sanctus Louis, and in the center is the crooked hanging tree and statue of Frigg. A brilliant spotlight shines onto her face, making it glow.

I twist to point her out to Soren, but Baldur is staring at my lap with slightly narrowed eyes. Protectively, I grip Unferth’s sword and the god looks up at me. “Is there a tiny boar etched into that garnet?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“
Hringmæl
swords are rare these days.” Baldur holds out his hand and I give the sword over eagerly. He inspects the raw garnet, flicks his finger over the ring dangling from the pommel, then caresses the narrow wooden grip and flat crosspiece.

“Do you know it?” Soren asks.

“It looks like Hrunting.” Delight peppers his voice. “Is this why you were asking about Unferth and Beowulf?”

“You know its name?” I whisper.

But the limo stops and everyone but me looks outside. Our driver opens the doors and Baldur steps out with the blade. He holds his hand in for me.

Glorious light blinds me and I blink to adjust. We’re surrounded by guests and the media, and before us is a mansion. The veranda is lined with massive white pillars and crystal chandeliers hanging between them like fixed galaxies. Taxis and hired cars and another limo fill the circle driveway, and photographers wait in the garden, snapping pictures of the guests in their gala gowns and tuxedos. We aren’t the only ones fashionably late, and we’re nearly lost in the noise of the crowd and cameras and jazz.

Baldur faces me and gently settles Unferth’s sword over my shoulder. His fingers skillfully find the buckle of my baldric and snap it around my ribs. They designed it to act as a belt around the high waist of this red dress and to cut up between my breasts like a necklace. The cold silver pinches but holds the iron weight of the sword firmly against me. I feel as though Baldur is fixing my armor in place before battle.

Beside us, Soren slings his own sword on and touches the small of Glory’s bare back. I’ve no idea how her dress stays on. Divine will? The four of us go together, and Baldur only pulls me ahead of the others at the last moment. We climb the broad steps up into the house.

The foyer would fit the entire Shipworm under its nine-meter ceiling, held up by dark wooden beams, and a green marble floor spreads out like a meadow toward the high arch leading down into the ballroom itself. Standing here is like standing in a time-frozen forest cathedral.