Calder considered the almost-setting sun. Three days ago, Halvar had sent six men to Brenna’s husband to get the ransom. While Brenna had been unconscious the second day, Halvar had cut a lock of her hair and removed a ring from her finger. The six men had taken them as proof so her husband could pay the ransom.

He’d avoided being alone with Brenna since the morning of her bath. The desire in him to ask her about those scars was great. The scars were still angry. Calder visited the healer in his hut, a hut taken over from one of the local villagers.

“Rangan,” Calder smiled at the wizened man. “I’m seeking tea tree oil.”

“Have you a scar that needs tending?” Rangan frowned. “Let me take care of it.”

“No. I’ll do it. Do you have any?”

Rangan rummaged through a scarred, old oak chest, then popped up like a rodent from a hole in the ground, a small clay pot in his hands. “Here you are, brother of Halvar.”

“I’ll return it in a few days.”

Calder unlocked the door to the small stone room that doubled as Brenna’s cell. He rapped on the door softly with his knuckles before he opened it a crack.

Her “Enter” came seconds later.

She looked at him. Her eyes were clear and vividly green, like precious gems, but glittering as though angry.

“Remove your tunic,” he told her softly.

“I will not.” She glared at him.

He held up the pot. She frowned.

“For your scars.”

Her eyes narrowed even more. “While I bathed. You looked.”

He nodded. “I saw nothing. Only the scars.” He didn’t mention the glimpse of her plump ass or the ivory hips that tempted a man to want to hold them during the act.

She scowled. “I don’t believe you.”

He shook his head. “Believe what you will.” He tilted the pot back and forth. “But this is to help with your scars.”

“Leave it with me. I’ll have Astrid help me with it tomorrow.”

“I can’t leave it. If they know I helped you—”

“Then why are you?” Her tone was hostile.

I have no idea.

“Do you want my help or not? Because I will not leave the pot here.”

She nodded. “But even more… I’d like your help with…” She chewed on her bottom lip, worrying it so that Calder was sure it would chafe.

He raised his hand and placed the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip and freed it from her teeth. It returned to its place, plump and red.

“Help with what, lady?”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Don’t call you lady? What do your husband’s servants call you?

She shook her head. “Don’t call me that.”

“I shall not, then. What do you want help with?”

“It is close to the solstice, a time I make a wreath in remembrance.”

“In remembrance of what?”

“My mother. She passed two years ago.”

Calder scowled. He had no idea where to find any such thing as a wreath. “And you want me to fetch you a wreath?”

“I need to collect the plants myself, weave it myself.”

Calder pondered this. “It’s almost dark. I’ll have to bind you to me. I can’t have you running off into the night.”

Tears pooled in her eyes, making the green hue glitter more. “I will not run. You can bind me.”

He slipped the pot into a pouch at his waist, went outside, securing the cell door behind him then procured a leather strap from near the oxen shed, and returned to Brenna’s cell.

“Put your hand out.”

He bound her wrist with the strap, then attached it to his own.

He tapped the axe affixed to his belt. “Let this serve as a reminder. Do not try anything, lad—” what was he to call her if not lady? “—woman.”

She nodded as though woman was better. Then she said, “My name is Brenna. You know this.”

“Brenna,” he said her name aloud, the second time ever, though he’d said it in his mind more times than there were stars about.

His reward was a small lift to her lips, a ghost of a smile.

* * *

By the time the sun had fully set, Brenna had an armful of flowers and leaves for the wreath she’d be weaving. Calder had walked about with her, patiently attached at the wrists with the strap he’d placed there.

It had occurred to Calder as they’d moved about that it reminded him of a commitment ceremony. His mother had told him his father had been in a commitment ceremony with Halvar’s mother first, but she’d died from the winter storm one year, shivering and at the same time burning with a fever, and less than a year later, Aevar had a commitment ceremony with Calder’s mother.

Calder’s mother died when he was ten, but Calder could remember the stories she’d told him of how she’d met his father, and how they’d been soulspliced. He’d asked her what that was. She said that one day, he’d know. One day, he’d find that woman whose soul was spliced to his.

Calder had grimaced that day and stuck his tongue out as if tasting the most bitter of meads. His mother had laughed. Her laughter brought his father into their great hall to find out the cause of her mirth.

She’d told Aevar that their son found the idea of soulsplicing to be repulsive. Aevar had kissed her on the lips, his eyes gleaming, the ring of gold in his eyes caused by his bear had flickered like firelight.

“One day, he’ll know,” Aevar had said.

Now both of his parents were gone, and the only one left of his immediate family was Halvar. An older brother whom Calder loved, but had an on and off tenuous and rivalrous existence with, at best.

At that moment, Calder realized that Brenna had stopped moving. She’d been still, and was staring at him.

He locked gazes with her and wished he knew what was on her mind.