It was him. It was clearly him. Even with one of his arms heavily bandaged, and laid up in a hospital bed in River Falls in 2018, it was him. I blinked and coughed, certain I was seeing things, but there he still was when I looked again.

Ivar. Ivar the Viking, from the 9th freakin' Century.

"Uh," I stammered, panicking, when Jerry Sawchuk asked me if I knew the man I'd spent a healthy chunk of the previous week naked with. "I – uh – no, no. I don't. I've never seen this man before in my life."

The lie came quickly, almost unthinkingly. I had to do it. If I admitted I knew who Ivar was, Jerry was going to ask me how I knew him, and where we'd met, and what our relationship was – and I wasn't going to be able to answer any of those questions. I did it to protect myself. I did it to protect him, too. He didn't know where he was. He probably thought he was going to be able to fight his way out of the hospital!

I wanted to go to him. My poor heart, hammering in my chest as I lied to my boss – who was already very unhappy with me for taking an unannounced 'week off' in the midst of my comeback from a period of leave – ached to see the Viking there in bed, with his arm bandaged up. What had happened to him? All I knew was I'd gotten a call from my partner Dan, stationed at the River Falls Hospital, and saying they'd arrested a man for breaking into the Renner house, that he'd been shot, and that he was demanding to see me.

Luckily, Ivar was smart enough to realize I was lying for a reason and shut his own mouth.

"Is this her?" Jerry demanded, gesturing towards me. "Is this who you wanted to see? How do you know this woman?"

The Viking turned away and looked out the window, refusing to answer. And after a few more attempts, Jerry gave up.

"Fine. Come on, Sophie, let's go."

I didn't want to go. I wanted to talk to Ivar. I wanted to explains about guns and hospitals and police and make him understand that he wasn't going to be able to use physical force to get himself out of this one. I also wanted to say sorry. I knew he was in that hospital bed because of me, because he'd come looking for me and fallen through the tree unknowingly, the same way I had but in the opposite direction.

Before I followed Jerry Sawchuk out of the room I turned and glanced back at Ivar for less than a second. The context in which I was seeing him may have been wildly different, but the pull between us was still there. Sure, I wanted to talk to him. I needed to talk to him, because there were things he needed to know about where he was and how we did things here, in this new place. But apart from all of those sensible, rational thoughts was the part of me that wanted to turn around and crawl into bed next to him, to lay my head on his chest and let him run his strong fingers through my hair.

* * *

"Maybe I can talk to him?" I asked Jerry as we left the hospital. I was pretty sure what the response was going to be, but I had to try. "You said he asked for me by name, right? I don't know who he is but maybe he'd be more willing to talk to me than –"

"No."

That was it. A snapped 'no.'

We kept walking, Jerry silent, letting me stew for a few moments before we got to his cruiser and he turned to face me.

"You shouldn't even be here, Sophie. You know that. You're a good cop, we both know it, but your behavior has been – well, it's been erratic. And don't give me that look, you know damn well any other job you'd get fired for taking a week off without telling anyone. I've got half a mind to do it anyway, even if we're understaffed and you're a good cop – when you show up, anyway."

"Please," I started, "Jerry, please. It's difficult to explain but I didn't mean to be gone for a whole week. I didn't –"

Jerry shook his head. I'd only managed to annoy him further. "I'm sorry, Foster, but I'm placing you on leave again."

"But –"

"And if you want me to fire you, as we both know I'd be well within my rights to do, just keep talking."

Damnit. I took a step back and looked down, trying to come across as respectful as possible. I also took Jerry's very clear signal and stopped talking. He got into the cruiser, shut the door and then rolled the window down to look at me.

"Get your shit together, young lady. Whatever it is you need to do, do it. I've been more than patient with you. Any more slip-ups and I'll have no choice but to let you go."

"Yes, s–" I started but he pulled away before I could finish. I wanted to be angry. I felt angry. But even I knew I didn't have any real reason to be. My boss was right. From his perspective I must have looked like someone whose only wish in life was to be fired.

I walked back to my car and drove home. Ashley was at my mother's house, after my mom had furiously on keeping her for a couple of days after my return. She'd reported me missing less than 24 hours after I – well, after I went missing. Jerry and Dan had only managed to keep it quiet because the media interest was dying down by then. So my poor mother had spent more than a week trying to keep her own worry that whoever had taken Paige Renner and Emma Wallis had now taken her own daughter under wraps – so as not to worry her granddaughter. When I got back, and went straight to her house to tell her I was safe, that I wasn't kidnapped, that I'd just needed a week away to 'think' (sure, as an excuse it was lame as hell – but I didn't know how else to explain it), she'd pulled me into her arms and buried her face in my neck, weeping. And then, when Ashley had left the room to get me a glass of water, my mother had slapped me – quickly and quietly but not gently – across the face and leaned in close to hiss in my ear:

"This is by far the stupidest thing you have ever done, Sophie. Do you have any idea how worried I was? How worried we were!? Don't you ever – ever – do something like this again. Don't you ever leave your child wondering where her mother is."

I'd wanted to explain. The words waited there on the tip of my tongue, clamoring to come out, to prove it wasn't my fault, that it hadn't been my choice to worry either of them. But they stayed unspoken as tears sprang up in my eyes and my cheeks burned hot with the slap – and the shame of my mother's rebuke. And then Ashley had walked back into the room and I'd blinked my tears away, smiling shakily up at her and thanking her for the water.

I found Heather standing in front of the refrigerator, staring, when I walked into my house.

"Close the door," I told her gently, nudging it out of her hands. "You'll let all the cold out. Are you hungry? I told you you could eat anything you want."

Heather looked up. "Uh – what? Oh yeah. Yeah, I had a – I had a banana. And an apple. From the fruit bowl."

"A banana and an apple?" I asked. "That's all you've eaten today?"

"It's been almost 35 years since I tasted banana, girl. I'm easing myself back into all of this food. There's – there's so much of it. I keep coming back to the fridge and just staring at all of it. I hardly recognize anything. Well, bread. And eggs, and milk. But," she grabbed a tray of takeout sushi leftovers and held it up, "what's this?"

"Sushi," I replied. "And I hope you didn't eat any of it. Here, give it to me, I'll throw it away."

But when I tried to take the plastic platter out of Heather's hands, she clutched it ever more tightly. "No. No, it looks fine! What – you're just going to throw food away like that? What did you say it was?"

"Sushi. It's made with raw fish and it's been in there for over a week," I replied, laughing. "It would definitely not be a good idea to eat this."

Heather let go, turning back to the fridge's contents. "Su – what? Sushi? Raw fish? Are you on some kind of strange diet?"

"You don't know what sushi is?" I asked, surprised. "Everyone eats sushi. This is, like, totally not exotic. If you don't like raw fish you can get it with –"

"Oh I'll eat anything," she replied, grinning back at me. "Believe me, almost 40 years in the past and a couple of serious near-misses with the kind of starvation Americans don't even understand will do that to you. Magnus and I once spent an entire winter living on rotten sneeps and grass. Grass!"

"Sneeps?"

"Yeah. They're sort of like carrots. Root vegetables. But the point is, I'm not picky about food."

Thinking that Heather's stomach might appreciate blander fare, at least at first, I fixed us a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and invited her into the living room to sit on the sofa. But as soon as she took the first bite she made a face.

"It's so sweet!"

"It's peanut butter and jelly," I told her. "I know you had PB and J in the 80s. It's supposed to be –"

"No," she replied, showing me where she had bitten only some of the bread off the sandwich. "The bread. It just tastes like sugar!"

When I offered to fix something else, though, Heather refused out of politeness. She even tried to take a few more bites of the sandwich before giving up and using a butter knife to scrape the peanut butter and jelly – and soon just the peanut butter – off the offensively sweet bread. Bread didn't taste sweet to me, but I knew what everyone said about Americans eating too much sugar and guessed my taste-buds were just accustomed to it.

"So what did you do today?" I asked, curious as to how someone who has been away from modern civilization for almost four decades would spend her first few days back. "Did you use the computer?"

I'd given Heather a very quick lesson on the laptop that morning, showing her the touchpad and how to use it and trying, very badly, to explain the internet. But she shook her head and looked a little embarrassed.

"I tried. But I gave up after about a minute. I just – I'm sorry, but I didn't really understand anything you said this morning. I'm sure I'll learn, I just need to –"

"No," I told her. "Don't be sorry. I'll get Ashley to give you some lessons, she's much better at that kind of thing than I am anyway."

"I did have a bath."

"Did you?"

"Yes. And it was – I don't think I can describe it. What a luxury! All that hot water just – just pouring out of the tap! Endlessly! And all of it clean. I couldn't use any of that bubble bath you showed me because I think my nose has changed – everything seems to stink here – but I lay in that tub for, oh, two hours? Until my fingers looked like raisins."

"You think bubble bath stinks?" I asked, remembering the pungent smells of the 9th century.

"Not like that," Heather laughed, catching the look on my face. "And I do remember how bad it was when I first lived there, in the Kingdom. I used to walk around with a cloth held over my mouth, and my husband used to joke that I must have been born a princess to behave so ridiculously. But now it's been so long that it's here – it's the future that smells. Not like rotting food or shit or animals but just of chemicals and sweetness. That jelly on the sandwich is so sharp, so perfumed, and the bubble bath was the same. I'm sure I'll get used to it in a little while."

We talked about Heather's impressions of the future, and I was grateful for the distraction, for having a little more time to try to gather my thoughts about Ivar. She'd been away for so long it was almost like coming to the new world afresh, she told me, adding that her memories of the past in River Falls were as hazy as dreams.

"I won't stay with you for long," she said at one point, clearly worried that I would think she meant to stay for good. "And I'm so grateful you're letting me stay here with you. But I intend to make my own life, now, for what's left of it. Everything here is clean and shiny and inexplicable, but I'm an old woman now, Sophie, and old women are resourceful. I'll be on my way sooner than you think."

I didn't doubt her sincerity, but I struggled to think of anything Heather could do to support herself. Computers were as unknown and alien to her as ancient navigational charts were to me, and I wasn't even sure if she was still literate. What was she going to do? Wash dishes in a restaurant kitchen? It didn't seem right for someone of her age, and her experiences, to head into their twilight years doing backbreaking work for little pay.

She must have seen that I was concerned, though, because she stood up and left the room with a smile that spoke to some great secret on her face. And when she came back, she held an object in her hands, long and thin and wrapped in linen.

"What is it?" I asked, as Heather carefully unrolled the little package and then laid a dagger on the table.

"It was my husband's," she said simply. "It's all I have left of him now. I was thinking I could sell it here – there are people who collect things like this, aren't there? I could –"

"You can't sell it!" I protested, horrified. "If it was your husband's –"

"What do you think my husband would want for me?" Heather retorted, pointedly but not unkindly. "He loved me, girl, as well as any man has ever loved a woman. Do you think he would want his wife to hold onto an object, one that contained no real trace of love or warmth within it? Or do you think he would want me to use it to buy myself some comforts, and some good food for my belly before I join him in the next world?"

I sat back, rightly chastised. She was right, of course.

"How much do you think you'll get for it?" I asked, leaning forward to get a closer look. It was in fine condition, the blade polished to a high shine and the bone handle, carved with scenes from what look like a hunt, inlaid with red and blue and amber gemstones.

"I was about to ask you the same thing. I haven't used it as a tool, I've always been careful to keep it in good condition."

I remembered, then, the conversations with Professor Foxwell about the broken piece of Anglo Saxon jewelry. He'd mentioned that even something like what I found in the woods on the Renner property – broken, barely recognizable as anything but a scrap of random metal – would normally only be found in a museum or at a university. And if that was true, if even fragments from the time of the Angles and the Vikings were precious enough to keep in museums, what would an entire dagger, adorned with carvings and gems, be worth?

"I'm not sure," I said, thinking it best to speak to the professor before I got anyone's hopes up. "But I think I know someone who can help. I'll e-mail him tomorrow and see if he'll take a look at it."

"You'll what? E-mail?"

I smiled. "It's sort of like a letter, but instant. I type it up on the computer and then send it to another computer address and it gets there right away."

Heather didn't know what I was talking about, I could see it on her face. And I didn't really know enough about technology to tell her. So instead, I decided to tell her something else.

"Jarl Ivar is in the River Falls Hospital."

"What?" The old woman asked and then, when my words had sunk in and her mouth dropped open, she repeated herself. "What did you say? Jarl Ivar is – he's here?"

I nodded as the weight of the situation weighed down my shoulders again. "Yes. Here. In River Falls. He must have come after me. He must have come through the tree like I did – like you did, the first time – by accident. The police shot him in the arm when he tried to attack my partner, and now he's in the hospital and I have no idea what to do."

I began to cry, then, surprising myself with my sudden emotion so much that I almost forgot to feel embarrassed. "It's my fault! He was coming after me – because I didn't tell him I was leaving! And now he's here and he's probably going to go to prison or get put into a mental institution and it's all because of –"

"You have to get him out."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, I realized not only that they were right, but that I already knew it. I did have to get Jarl Ivar out of that hospital – and out of custody. Yes, I was a cop. I was also a human being, and even apart from all the feelings that were already taking root in my heart, he had saved me from being raped – and probably killed. I owed him.

"What?" I asked, as the logical part of my brain began to protest.

You're risking your job. You're risking your income. You're risking your house, your future – your daughter's future.

"You have to get him out," Heather repeated. He saved us didn't he? He saved us in Thetford, when the Angles meant to rape and probably kill us? How long do you think someone from that time will last here? I don't even mean remain alive, because they're not going to kill him, but I mean remain sane? How long in a prison cell before he loses his mind? Besides," she paused, reaching down to run her fingertips gently over the hilt of her husband's dagger, "you love him."

I glanced up, assuming she was joking about that last part and then laughing out loud when she didn't seem to be. "What? I love him? Heather, I barely know him!"

The older woman shrugged. "Who ever told you love made sense, girl? I see that you haven't admitted it yet, even to yourself, but I also see the look in your eyes when you speak of him – I see it right now, plain as day."

I looked at the dagger and then into the kitchen, suddenly awkward. "Yes," I said, "well, I, uh, I don't know about that. But I owe him, that much is true. And I do need to help him get out. Even if I get fired – and I am pretty sure I'm getting fired anyway."

"I'll help you do it. He saved me, too, and you helped me get back here – it's the least I can do for you both. Now. You said he's at River Falls Hospital, right? What time is it now? Your daughter is with your mother tonight, right? We can leave in –"

"Wait!" I said, realizing Heather intended to leave right then and knowing that blundering into the hospital without a plan would be the very worst thing to do. "Just hold on a sec. He's been shot, he's recovering from surgery – he's going to be there for a few more days, at least. And there are police guarding his room, we can't just waltz in there and take him with us."

"What, then?"

* * *

Two days later, I found myself in William Foxwell's office, shifting nervously in a heavy wooden chair as I waited. Heather and I had both agreed, after a brief search online revealed my suspicions – that real Viking daggers were so rare they could arguably be said to be nonexistent, at least in their intact form – were true, to get a valuation of her dagger in particular, before we made any other decisions.

But time was tight. Ivar was still in the hospital and healing quickly, according to my partner Dan. After being discharged from the hospital he was going to be charged with assaulting a peace officer and then, if he couldn't post bail (which he could not) he was to be remanded in custody. And it was going to be much harder to get him out of jail than the hospital.

"Ms. Foster," Professor Foxwell's voice came from behind me and I stood up to greet him and shake his hand. "How are you? Would you like something to drink – coffee? I just had my assistant put a pot on."

"Uh – no, no thanks," I replied, placing a protective hand on the bag that contained the dagger, heavy and soft with the many layers of towels Heather and I had wrapped it in that morning. "I'm fine, Professor. How about you?"

"Oh, not too bad," he replied, taking a seat in front of me. "Classes starting again soon, back to the grind. Have you come to see me with another question about the piece you found? You can always e-mail me if you like, there's no need to make a special trip to –"

"It's not about that piece," I replied. "I mean, it's about a piece, but not that one."

William Foxwell chuckled. "Another piece? Don't tell me you found it in the same place? How many Anglo Saxon artifacts can there be just lying around in the New York woods, anyway?"

The professor was being lighthearted, professional. I liked him, but part of me was looking forward to his reaction when I showed him the new 'piece.'

And he did not disappoint on that count.

He leaned forward in his chair when I unwrapped the dagger carefully on his desk, and lifted his glasses up above his eyes to peer at it. He got so close his nose almost touched the blade and then he furrowed his brow and blinked, before very gently moving it so he could get a better look at the hilt.

"Where did you get this?" He asked, not waiting for an answer before continuing. "This is – this is extraordinarily well done, Sophie. Yes, yes, this is quite amazing. I presume this is, ah, some kind of practical joke?"

I shook my head when Professor Foxwell looked up, his eyebrows raised, clearly expecting a confession or an explanation from me.

"No," I told him. "No, this is not a practical joke. This is –"

"Where did you get this?" He asked again, leaning back down close to the dagger and running one fingertip very gently over one of the gems inlaid into the hilt. "These are – these are rough-cut gems, Sophie. You don't – it's very rare to see gems cut with this technique these days. I – tell me, please, where ever did you find this? I've never seen a replica so well done. To the naked eye, it could be entirely authentic."

"I – um," I stammered. "Sir, Professor Foxwell, I don't think it's a replica. In fact I – I know it's not."

William Foxwell chuckled, not unkindly but the way someone chuckles when you've got something wrong and they know it. "Well it can't be authentic," he replied, although he appeared reluctant to take his eyes off the dagger. "We have no surviving intact Anglo Saxon or Viking – because this looks Viking to me – daggers. Only fragments. Look at the blade – it's near-pristine. No, I'm sorry to disappoint you if you were hoping for different news, but this is not an authentic item. It is, however, a very well done replica of the real thing, and I suspect it would have some resale value."

I smiled politely, not wishing to question my friend's expertise, but also aware that he was wrong. "How do you know?" I asked quietly.

"How do I know what?"

"How do you know it isn't authentic? You ran tests on the other piece, didn't you? Could you run tests on this dagger?"

The professor smiled back. "I could, but what would be the point? No pieces of this quality, and in this condition, exist in the world. To send it for testing would simply waste time and money. There are people who collect this kind of thing, you know, if you wish to sell it. It's very well done, I suspect you could get, hmmm, perhaps around a thousand, fifteen hundred dollars? More if those gemstones are real."

"How much could I get if it is authentic?" I asked. "Just pretending it is, I mean?"

Professor Foxwell again ran his finger gently down the length of the blade, unable to stop himself gazing at the dagger even as he insisted it couldn't be anything but a replica. "If this was real?" He asked. "If this was an authentic Viking dagger? It would be priceless."

Priceless. My heart fluttered in my chest. Heather and I had speculated on what it might be worth, and neither of us had guessed anything over one hundred thousand dollars – and we both thought even that amount was probably wishful thinking.

"Priceless?" I whispered, clasping my hands together in my lap to keep them from shaking. "What, uh – what does that mean? I know what it means but I guess I'm just asking if someone was to put an authentic Viking dagger up for sale, how much do you think it would sell for? Just guessing?"

"Tens of millions at least. If this was authentic, Sophie, it would literally be the only item of its kind on earth. There are very wealthy people out there, people to whom money is truly no object, who would pay any amount to own something like that. I do hope you're not planning on leaving your job at the River Falls PD for a new career as an artifact forger, though!"

Tens of millions. Tens of millions?! I closed my eyes and tried to comprehend what I was hearing. Ten million dollars? More? Even if Professor Foxwell was getting over-exited, or speculating wildly because he thought the conversation was just theoretical, even a million dollars was more than enough to keep Heather Renner in very agreeable circumstances for the rest of her life.

"Um, no." I laughed. "I'm not planning on doing anything like that – not that I could even I wanted to, because this isn't forged. I know you don't believe me but –"

"Sophie," the professor intoned, looking up at me with patience in his eyes. "I don't want to be patronizing, and it's possible you believe this dagger to be authentic – perhaps someone you trust told you as much – but I have spent my life studying these things and when I tell you no such objects exist like this one, anywhere in the world, you can take me at my word."

"But you didn't believe the Anglo Saxon piece was real, either, did you?" I asked, feeling slightly desperate. If no one was going to believe the dagger was real, how was Heather supposed to sell it for what it was worth? "Remember the soil you found on it? How did that get there?"

William Foxwell shook his head. "Now that I couldn't tell you. It must have been stored very carefully, somewhere where it was not exposed to the elements. Or you have access to a time machine you're simply not telling me about. Which, if you do, might explain the fineness of this dagger."

If only I could have told him the truth. I couldn't – not without looking mad, anyway – but I wished to. I looked the professor evenly in the eyes and spoke seriously.

"I can't explain it, Professor Foxwell, I admit that. But I promise – I promise you – that if you have this dagger tested you will find that it is actually authentic."