“Shit,” I muttered to myself.

I’d been living in Asgard for over a month, and the way the afternoons faded so quickly to dusk still surprised me. After spending half the day under the heavy shade of the thick pine forest, I should have guessed I’d have trouble estimating the time. The sun was already hovering just above the slow, dark undulations of the Asgardian ocean. Frowning, I held my hand to the horizon, counting the fingers between the sun and the sea. Just my index and pointer. Damn, that meant I only had thirty minutes to make it home.

Home. I snorted under my breath. Funny how that little word adapts to fit the circumstances. Just one month ago I’d never have believed anywhere but my little house in Bozeman could be home. Now Asguard, and Vali’s childhood cottage, were not exactly home, but the closest I was going to get.

Gritting my teeth against the slow burning muscle cramps in my calves, I forced myself to walk as fast as I could without actually running. I couldn’t remember the exact wording of the American Academy of Pediatrics recommendations about exercising while pregnant, but I thought the gist was don’t push yourself too hard. And something about not getting out of breath.

I huffed loudly. If I hadn’t been so distracted by that damn bird. Today was only the second time I’d seen that species, with its flash of brilliant blue beneath a drab gray underwing, and I couldn’t resist trying to sketch it. I’d followed it for hours through the forest, jotting down observations and making almost a dozen quick drawings. I wasn’t much of an artist, but for all I knew I might be the greatest wildlife biologist in all of Asgard. Snorting another laugh, I paused to adjust the shoulder strap of my leather bag, which was digging into my collarbone.

“My kingdom for a proper backpack,” I said, with a sigh.

Getting this shoddy shoulder bag had been a days-long struggle between me and the bedroom wardrobe. That damn wardrobe was slightly psychic, or at least able to sense my needs in very broad terms. But it seemed to lack imagination. For the first week, all it had given me was velvet dresses and what I guessed were embroidery supplies. Finally, I started standing in front of it with my eyes closed and concentrating very hard on exactly what I wanted.

A backpack, I told the wardrobe. A small, fabric bag with two shoulder straps and a clasp on top.

I opened the wardrobe and found brightly colored thread, hoops, and pale silk. Again, and again. Finally, I kicked the damn thing, hurting my toe in the process.

The shoulder bag arrived the next morning. That night I started asking for paper and pens. A black and white composition notebook. Ballpoint pens or, failing that, regular old number two pencils.

I finally got thin sticks of what must have been charcoal, and reams of thick, tea-colored parchment. Good enough for field work, I told myself.

Several leaves of the parchment were stuffed into the shoulder bag, which was currently cutting into my collarbone, next to the empty leather wine skin I’d filled with water this morning. I hadn’t planned to be gone all day, or I would have brought more than two biscuits from breakfast. Originally, I’d planned on mapping the far side of the river this morning, but then that damn bird alighted on a cattail, and my day took a totally different turn.

The thick, springy grass finally gave way to sand, and I sighed in relief. Almost home. I glanced at the sun, which was now burning red against the dark ocean. I’d been tracking the sunsets since my third day here, when I decided I had better do something other than cry and vomit if I was going to survive. In the past thirty-two days I’d spent on Asgard, I’d only missed two sunsets, and that was due to rain so heavy it obscured the light. I really didn’t want to mess up that streak.

The peaked thatch roof of the little cottage came into view, and I let myself slow down. My legs burned, and my stomach grumbled in protest.

“Sorry,” I murmured, rubbing my belly reflexively. “Dinner’s coming, little one.”

I risked another glance to the ocean. The sun hadn’t yet started to dip below the waves, so I had time to pull open the cottage’s heavy door and shrug off my bag. The candles on the kitchen table sprung to life as I stepped through the door, and the room filled with the smell of rich, roast meat. My mouth ached as I watched my plate fill with food. As always, it was accompanied by a glass of mead. I sighed. I was sticking with the American Academy of Pediatrics strict “no alcohol while pregnant” guidelines, but damned if I didn’t regret it every night. With another glance out the open door, I grabbed a roast carrot and nibbled it slowly, waiting to see how my stomach would react.

My first bite was met with a familiar wave of nausea. I took a few deep, steadying breaths. If I could make it through the first few bites without throwing up, I was usually in the clear.

My stomach contracted sharply, and bile rose in the back of my mouth. No such luck today. I sprinted across the kitchen and emptied the carrot, and what was left of breakfast, into the sink, coughing and gagging.

“Gross!” I said, splashing water over my lips. “Got it. You’re not a fan of carrots, baby girl.”

Feeling shaky and weak, like I always did after throwing up, I staggered across the kitchen and back out the door. I’d set up my observation post on top of the nearest dune, next to an enormous rose bush. The burning orange sun was halfway submerged in the ocean when I sank to my knees and then, after brushing away the twigs, lowered myself to my stomach, shifting slightly around the hard knot in my abdomen. I was still too early in the pregnancy to notice any external differences, but I could feel the hardening of my uterus when I lay like this.

“You get any bigger, baby girl, and I’ll have to dig a pit for my tummy,” I said.

I forced myself to settle down and align my gaze with the flat stone I’d buried here last month. Then, blinking frantically, I stared at the sun as I drew a straight line in the sand with my finger, connecting the position of the setting sun to the flat stone.

“Done.”

I pushed myself back up to sitting. The sun flickered once as it vanished beneath the waves, and I felt an unexpectedly strong pull of loneliness at the arrival of the night. Was this the worst time, then? Just after sunset?

“Stop it,” I muttered, shaking my head. “There’s still work to do.”

I’d left the door to the cottage wide open. The candles flickered happily just inside the open door, making the place seem almost welcoming. Almost like something other than a pretty little trap, with me as the bait. I bit my lip, trying to think about something else. Like where I’d put the parchment tracking the sun’s motion.

“This place could use a bit more storage,” I told the kitchen as I rifled through the stack of papers on the counter. The kitchen smelled better than ever, and my now totally empty stomach groaned in protest.

“Not now,” I told my stomach.

There it was! I pulled one of the largest pieces of parchment from the stack. An array of dots, vectors, and dates lay scattered along the jagged top edge. Insects were singing from the rose bushes as I walked back to my observation post. I lay the parchment atop the flat stone, aligning the dark spot in the center of the parchment with the notch I’d made in the stone. Then I took my charcoal pencil and traced the line I’d made in the sand onto the paper. I dated it 1/31? and stood back, holding the parchment at arm’s length.

Even accounting for human error, my lines marking the sun’s descent marched steadily across the page. Each day, the sunset shifted about an eighth of an inch westward on the horizon. Without my phone, watch, or any other timepiece, it was hard to tell if the days were growing shorter, but this felt like irrefutable evidence that the axis of this planet was definitely tilted.

“And there you have it, baby girl,” I said, wrapping an arm around my belly. “I’ll have to submit my findings to the Asgardian Journal of Science. Maybe I’ll get another publication out of it.”

Smiling at my own stupid joke, I turned back to the candlelit cottage. Dinner was waiting.