To my surprise – or, once I gave it some thought, perhaps not to my surprise at all – Jarl Ivar seemed to come to an acceptance of the time travel explanation quickly. Many of his questions, although they seemed different to the ones I had, were essentially the same. Where he enquired as to how he – a Jarl, yes, but still a man – was able to do things only the gods were known to do, I myself remembered lying on the forest floor, wondering what a physicist would have to say about the fact that I had done something that should have been impossible. We both knew something profoundly strange had happened to us, we just appealed to different authorities for an explanation.

If anything, Ivar's life in the past, with the mysterious gothis and the open beliefs in other worlds, in life after death and gods and goddesses and all manner of supernatural phenomena, had prepared him to believe in such a thing as time travel much more than my own life had prepared me. In my world, in 2018, there was no magic, nothing supernatural. Even the most religious people I knew would have balked at being told that magic – some very specific, inexplicable kind of magic – was at play in a tree on the Renner property.

Ivar and Heather stayed at a cabin in the woods about half an hour from River Falls. It was owned by Juanita Gomez, Maria's grandmother, and the family hadn't used it for more than a decade. It therefore made a perfect hideout for the Viking Jarl and the woman who had gone missing 35 years ago, both of whom I knew the police and the FBI would be very anxious to speak to, if they could.

* * *

"Car," I repeated the world to Ivar as we stood next to mine, parked in the driveway of the cabin, out of sight of the road. Jerry Sawchuk made sure to check my alibi for the night the large, fierce, and apparently deeply crazy man they'd been guarding had been spotted escaping the River Falls Hospital with an unknown woman, but Maria and her family had backed me up, reassuring him I'd spent the night at their place after staying up too late playing board games. Still, I knew I had to be careful. My boss clearly suspected something was up, and I didn't want to give him any more reasons to be suspicious.

"Car," Ivar said. "Car. Carrrr. I thought them beasts, when I saw them from the woods. Wolves. And now you tell me that men built them, and that the growling is nothing but the force that drives them forward?"

"Yes."

We had to stop twice on the way to Saratauk, a town about 45 minutes from the cabin, in the opposite direction to River Falls. The car made the Viking sick, and even as I told him to look out the front window, to keep his eyes steady on the road ahead, his eyes kept jumping in other directions and I had to pull over so he could retch and pant and try to catch his breath from the nausea before getting back inside.

"You'll get used to it," I told him. "Well, you would get used to it, if you had to do it often."

He nodded and wiped his watering eyes. "I would, I'm sure. I'm like the East Angles on a ship right now – they always get sick like this when we take them on board our ships after a raid. But a few days at sea, if we're traveling a distance, and they become used to the motion and begin keeping their breakfasts down."

I could not help taking out my phone and snapping a photo of Ivar's face when we walked into the grocery store and his mouth fell open the way mine would if I suddenly happened upon a warehouse full of gold and precious gems. He stood rooted to the spot, looking around at the people pushing their carts and the pyramids of fresh produce piled high in front of us.

"It can't be," he whispered, approaching a pile of apples, picking one up and examining it, and then taking a large bite.

"You can't just eat them!" I admonished him, laughing as a few people close to us glanced over at the absurdly huge man casually munching on an apple and looking around like the Super-Mart in Saratauk, New York was the greatest thing he'd ever seen. "We –" I started, but he was already getting started on a container of strawberries, yanking open the lid and popping the largest, reddest one into his mouth. "Ivar! Stop! We have to pay for these things first! You can't just eat them like that."

"Why?" He asked, as I grabbed an orange out of his hand before he could take a bite out of that, skin and all.

"You don't just do that where you come from, do you? In the North? You don't just grab food that belongs to other people and –"

"Sometimes we do."

"OK, fine," I conceded. "But not with your own people. You don't walk into your neighbor's house and take their bread, do you? You don't steal their pigs?"

The Viking shrugged and looked at me like he was wondering if I was the stupidest person on earth. "Of course we don't steal our neighbor's pigs, woman. But we steal the East Angle's pigs, and the Frankish pigs. And these people," he gestured with his good arm, "are not my neighbors."

I couldn't help but grin, thinking of what the store manager would do if Ivar just ran wild up and down the aisles, stuffing his face with potato chips and cookies and guzzling soda. But I was trying not to attract attention so I told him I could explain it later, if he wanted, but for right then he had to refrain from simply eating everything in sight before it had been paid for.

That shopping trip was the longest of my life. Who knew that getting groceries with a 9th century Viking was worse than doing it with a curious toddler? Although the packaged foods – the chips and cookies and brightly colored fruit snacks I'd imagined him scoffing – didn't seem to interest him at all, he lingered over the meat and dairy and fresh produce aisles.

"A what?" He asked, when I identified the object he held in his hand at one point.

"A potato. It's a root vegetable – like a sneep. There were potatoes in the stew last night."

"There were? We should get some more."

And without a word, he began lifting twenty pound bags of potatoes into the cart until I put a stop to it.

"But look at all this!" He responded, pointing to the potato sacks piled high on the display. "Do they keep well? You should take as many as you can now – don't let the bounty of the season fool you into thinking it will last through the winter."

I grabbed a bag of potatoes and put it back, and then another and another. "But it will," I smiled, because there was something adorable about his clear worry that I might not make it through winter without hundreds of pounds of potatoes. "It's different here. We, uh," I paused, because I realized how absurd what I was about to say was going to sound, "we always have enough potatoes here. We always have enough of everything. Sometimes people might not be able to afford all the food they want, but the food is always here."

We were standing in front of the meat counter when Ivar, whose eyes were still wide at the sheer variety of meats on display, commented that he knew I was telling the truth.

"I wouldn't have believed you," he said, examining the whole chickens. "If you told me about this place, your home, when we traveled north to Thetford. I would have thought you dull. Even now I have difficulty understanding how it can be so. But I look around at the people here and I see that none of them are starving – many of them are fatter than Kings! – and I believe the things you say. Is this a chicken?"

We put two chickens, after Ivar told me that chickens were rare and usually only seen on the tables of the highest Lords and Kings in the 9th century, into the cart. And then we headed down the snack food aisle, where I bought the granola bars for Ashley's lunches – and the secret stash of cookies I kept hidden away from her above the refrigerator so she wouldn't ever have to see her mother stress-eating.

"What's this?" The Viking enquired, picking up a bag of 'birthday cake' flavored cookies. And then, before I could explain, he'd torn open the package and taken one out, which he examined with a look of utter confusion on his face. I watched as he lifted it to his nose, sniffing, and then immediately yanked it away.

"This isn't food. Is this – do you eat this? You feed this to your children?"

I laughed at being mommy-shamed by a 9th century Jarl, but it would be a lie to say a wave of defensiveness did not roll over me. "No," I said quickly, "I don't let her eat cookies. I mean, not at home. I – uh, I give her these," I passed the box of granola bars to Ivar, "they're healthier."

But as soon as he'd opened the granola bars and held one of them up in front of his face, examining the multi-colored chocolate chips like a scientist studying a particularly distasteful sample, I sighed. "Yeah, actually those probably aren't very healthy, either."

"Healthy?" Ivar asked. "Healthy, woman? They're not even food. They don't smell like food. They probably don't even –" he took a bite of the granola bar and immediately spat it out. "Gods, woman! It's nothing but sweetness. How do you –"

I grabbed the box out of his hands and threw it into the cart, intending to pay for it by then only because it had been opened. "Never mind," I grumbled. "I won't give her any more granola bars, OK?"

Later, in the car, as I pulled over to let a carsick Viking get out and pace up and down beside the roadside, he took a lock of my hair in his hand and ran it through his fingers.

"You are unhappy," he said, "because I think the people here have too much? Because they have so much that they can give their children food colored as brightly as the spring bluebells?"

"No," I replied awkwardly. "It's not that. It's not really that. It's – I don't know how to explain this to you. What we feed our children is a big deal here. People will make negative judgments about other people based on what they feed their kids. Some of the moms at Ashley's school only feed their kids organic food and –"

"Organic?"

"Yeah. It just means it was grown without chemicals or, um, it means it was grown the way your people grow things. Sort of. But the point is some of the other moms can afford this expensive food and if you can't, they look down on you. They think you're a bad mother."

Ivar raised an eyebrow. "A bad mother? Does your child have a full belly?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Does the roof above her bed allow the snow to fall upon her head?"

"No."

"Then you are not a bad mother, Sophie."

I chuckled in spite of my previous annoyance, which I knew had nothing to do with Ivar himself. A full belly and a roof over their heads. How times – and attitudes – had changed when it came to raising kids. None of the Viking children had their afternoons packed with organized sports or their evenings with homework, and as far as I'd been able to discern they mostly seemed both happier and more well behaved than modern children.

Not that I was considering bringing Ashley back to the past with me – Paige Renner had made her decision and it was one I accepted and even understood, but there was no way I was taking my daughter anywhere where a small cut and the lack of hospitals could kill her before she grew into a woman.

"What do you think of?" Jarl Ivar asked when his carsickness had passed again and we were once again driving back to the cabin. "You are quiet. Usually you are not this quiet."

"Are you saying I talk too much?" I asked, grinning.

I was happy to be with the Viking. If I ignored whole parts of my memory, I could almost believe we were just a man and a woman, a girlfriend and boyfriend in the first hot, joyful rush of a new relationship, enthralled with each other and with even the simple running of errands together. I did feel those things. So did he. I could see it in his blue eyes, the way they crinkled up at the corners whenever he smiled at me – and he smiled at me a lot. But Ivar and I were not just girlfriend and boyfriend – if we were even that.

"There are reasons to be quiet," I continued, when he seemed to expect me to do so.

"What do you mean?"

"What do I mean?" I asked. "Jarl, you and I are a thousand years apart, even as we sit here next to each other! You're leaving, you're going back there to your people when your arm heals."

He was going back, and I knew it because he'd stated it repeatedly. The only thing I ever saw Ivar express real anxiety about was his need to get back to the people he had sworn to lead and protect. It made my heart swell with admiration. It also made me terribly jealous. And I only repeated that he was leaving because I hoped, deep down, that he might have changed his mind.

He had not.

"And when I go back, Sophie, you and your daughter will come with me. We will marry in Thetford, before the winter snows blow in from the –"

"No!" I cut him off, angry and upset that he continued to dismiss my vows that I could not possibly go back with him. "No I'm not coming back with you! Even if I wanted to – and there is a part of me that wants to, believe me, and a bigger part than you know – I can't! My whole family is here. My daughter, my mother, my friends. Heather is here now, and she needs me. My life is here. All of the things that pull you back to the Kingdom of the East Angles are the same for me! They pull me just as hard as they pull you!"

"They are not the same, woman," he intoned darkly, swallowing as the carsickness began to return. "They are not the same. Why must you be so stubborn? You know I can take you back if I want, don't you? Do you think you can fight me off, do you think you can stop me?"

Anger flared up in my chest. Who was this person – this man – to tell me that his responsibilities weighed more heavily on his shoulders than my own did on mine?

He must have seen it because he put one of his huge hands on my thigh, in an attempt to appease me. I pushed it off.

"No. Don't. Who are you to tell me that it's perfectly OK for me to neglect my own responsibilities, but not for you to do the same?" I asked, surprised by the emotion in my voice. "Why is your life more important than mine? Why are you speaking of me abandoning my whole life, as if it's nothing, and not of you doing the same? Can you just tell me why?"

"It's not as you say!" He protested. "Woman, you are searching for reasons to be angry with me because you wish to push me away from your heart before I go, so you will not be so wounded! Not once have I spoken of my own life as being worth more than yours, where do you get such things?!"

"And I can stop you," I continued, ignoring his point about me searching for reasons to be angry, because I was afraid it might be partially right. "You can't just take people here, Ivar. You can't just steal people like they're pigs. Besides, you already know you can't take me, I see it in your eyes right now. You know it would just make me hate you."

"It would make you hate me, would it?" He demanded, as we began to unload the groceries after arriving back at the cabin. "Are you so certain of this, woman?"

The Viking grabbed my wrist, easily taking the grocery bag away from me, and held me against the side of the car, pushing his body against mine. I couldn't think when he was that close to me. I could hardly even breath. He was so big, so certain of what he was doing as he looked down at me, eyes flashing.

"Ivar," I breathed, trying to turn away but somehow finding myself unable to do so.

"What is it?" He chuckled, seeing the way I softened.

"You can't just fuck your way out of this, you know!" I squeaked, summoning the last of my rapidly diminishing forces of resistance. "You can't – um – ohh..."

It may or may not have been true, what I said. But the truth of my words didn't matter as I found my mouth opening itself not to speak further but to welcome Ivar's tongue. He was hard, I could feel it against my belly, and I couldn't stop the reaction in my body when I felt the proof of how much he wanted me.

"Wait," I mumbled as he carried me into the cabin. "Wait. There's – Ivar, there's frozen yoghurt in the – um, in the – we need to –"

"You only need one thing," he whispered, unbuttoning my jeans and turning me around so I was facing the kitchen sink.

And then I forgot all about the frozen yoghurt. And the argument. I forgot about everything but the way the afternoon air felt against my bare sex when the Jarl yanked my jeans and my panties down to my ankles and then hardly gave me enough time to arch my hips back to him before filling me with his every sweet inch.

"Oh my God!" I gasped, as he slid his hands up under my shirt and cupped my breasts. "Oh my – oh –!"

"Stop talking, woman." He panted in my ear, grasping my hip with one hand and jerking me back against him. "Stop talking. You think you can solve this with words but you can't. You're coming with me. You belong to me, Sophie – you're mine."

Maria had a boyfriend once, a couple of years after high school. His name was Bennett and he wore red Wayfarers and I couldn't understand why my friend seemed so taken with him. When asked, all she would do is relay the fact that her preppy boyfriend had a 'magic dick.'

And although I never admitted it to anyone, I didn't really know what a magic dick was. Until I met the Ivar, that is. It wasn't that he somehow managed to change my rational mind that afternoon in the kitchen, when he bent me over the sink and fucked me until I thought I might weep from lust – it was that he made my rational mind disappear. He made me into an animal, a creature that was nothing but carnal desires and acute need.

When he told me I was his, it was true. In that moment, with my body taut with the necessity of giving itself to him, it was true. I was his. He made me his.

"Say it," he growled a few minutes later when he heard my helpless little sighs beginning to rise in pitch, and my heartbeat starting to flutter in my neck as he rained kisses along it. "Say it, Sophie. Tell me you're mine. Tell me!"

"I –" I stammered, because the possibility of not telling Ivar that I was his did not exist. "I –!" My sex tightened around him, sending a first wave, a harbinger of bliss, ringing through me.

"Say it!"

He flattened one of his palms on my lower back, just above my ass, and guided me back onto him, positioning me so he could get as far inside me as possible, and it was that gesture alone, even before I felt him sinking into me again, that did it. I gasped and scrunched my eyes closed.

"I'm yours. Ivar, I'm yours. I'm – I'm –"

But that was all I could say before he drove himself into me one more time and my entire being began to convulse around his cock, squeezing and pulling and pleading until he got there with me.

I stood there, pants and panties around my ankles, breathless and bent over the sink, for quite a few minutes. I couldn't move. My knees felt shaky, like they might give way if I attempted to walk, or to pull my pants back up. My heart hammered in my chest and my breaths came quick and deep.

The Viking placed a final, well-aimed and proprietary slap on my bare ass before casually putting his pants on again and heading back out to the car for the rest of the groceries while I recovered.

* * *

Later that night, after Heather had returned from foraging in the woods – an activity she said calmed her, even if it was technically unnecessary, she and I changed the dressings on Jarl Ivar's wounded arm.

"It's healing quickly!" She exclaimed, before turning to me and noting the disappointment I'd foolishly thought I was hiding. "What is it, Sophie? Don't you think it's –"

"She wishes me to stay injured," Ivar spoke up, failing once again to beat around the bush. "She wishes me to stay in this place forever, while my people struggle alone in Thetford."

Heather scoffed softly, although even that was more than she ever would have done to a Jarl in the past. "Men say women are dramatic," she smiled at me, "but I've never met one so dramatic as a man. Really Jarl – alone? You must know that your people are not truly alone? They have 4 other Jarls to leads them – 4! The Angles are subdued, the storehouses are almost full and the leaves begin to change their colors – what danger do you imagine stalks your people now?"

I sat back, eyes wide as I witnessed Heather – not long a free woman after a period as a thrall to the Northmen – walk right up to the line of accusing Jarl Ivar of speaking from ego without quite managing to step over it.

"Voss, woman!" The Viking snapped, whipping around and lifting his good arm to slap the older woman.

Only Heather did not cower. She did not laugh, either, or make light of Ivar's anger. She simply waited to see what he would do.

"I do not mean to anger you, Jarl," she continued when he declined to deliver the blow. "But what I say is true, is it not? The Northern people have 4 Jarls to protect them and keep them through the –"

"You do not understand." Ivar spoke gruffly. "You are a woman, how can you understand a thing like duty? How can you –"

"Duty?" Heather cut in, raising her voice. "Duty?! You speak of this thing as if it's the sole province of men, but what do you think is keeping Sophie here from going back through the tree with you to Thetford, if not duty? A mother's duty, a daughter's duty. You push her away with your foolish notion that only a man can feel what you do, that only a man can understand. It's not so, Jarl, and right now you are in a world where most know it."

Ivar jerked his arm away before we could reapply fresh bandages, and Heather gave me a look and shook her head when he stormed off. "Let him go, girl. He's young – and like all young men, he's got a hot head. It's what drives them into battle – and what drives us mad! He'll be back, give him some time to think and we can replace the rest of the bandages later."

I sat back on the sofa, wringing my hands. "You're right, you know – what you said. He doesn't understand why I can't just come with him. He's so arrogant, he thinks I should just give everything up and –"

"Oh he understands, girl," Heather interrupted me gently. "He understands. Men understand a lot more of us than they let on – but sometimes it's easier for them to pretend that they don't. Perhaps he will go on pretending, right up until the moment comes that he goes back through the tree to his people."

Tears sprang up in my eyes, too copious to be blinked away, and I swiped them away with my hand. "So you think he's going back?" I asked, although it was without any real hope in my heart.

Heather shrugged in response, though, which surprised me. "I cannot counsel you to get your hopes up, girl – he is the Jarl of Jarls, after all, and the Northmen raise their sons to do their duty above all else – but there's no saying what a young man won't do for love."

"He's almost 30," I told her, trying to hide the fact that my heart was suddenly filled with a dangerous hope. "And I don't think he loves me."

"Almost 30!" She laughed. "Only the young think 30 is the end of youth. And of course he loves you. See how he storms off at the mere thought of being without you!"

* * *

I roasted both the chickens for dinner that night, having learned just how much food Ivar could put away at a single sitting, and Heather helped me prepare the vegetables. We left the heavy subject of my relationship with the Viking Jarl behind in favor of chatter about the many differences, some not so obvious as it would seem, between the 9th century and the 21st. It was in the midst of this discussion, as Heather pronounced modern carrots 'utterly tasteless,' that my phone chimed.

"Damn!" She cried, jumping and then breaking into a grin when she realized what it was. "I swear it, girl, all of these beeps and blips and flashing lights are going to give me a heart attack before I even have time to settle in here!"

And I was about to respond when I looked down at my phone and saw the name on the screen:

Professor Foxwell.

I still hadn't told Heather about the possible worth of the dagger, because I didn't want to get her hopes up – my own were quite enough – so I told her I needed to take the call outside and stepped out into the driveway, where the deep blue blanket of twilight had begun to settle over the land.

"Hello? Professor Foxwell?"

"Yes – er, yes, Sophie, it's me."

Right away, I could tell something was up. The professor's voice sounded stilted and he was out of breath, like he'd just come in from a brisk walk.

"Do you," he continued, "have a moment? Or – uh, could you come into the office maybe, uh, maybe tomorrow? I suppose it doesn't matter, there's no reason I need to see you face to face although of course it might make it easier."

I'd never heard him so flustered. And as far as I knew there was only one reason for the professor to be flustered after our last conversation – the dagger.

"I can come in," I said, "but is it necessary? I feel like I already know what you're going to – "

"Sophie! I'm sorry, I apologize for acting like a crazy person right now but I – to tell the truth I can't quite get my head around the news. It's real – the dagger you brought in – it's real! Where did you – I mean, how did you –"

I'd already come up with a story to explain how I came to have an authentic Viking dagger in my possession. It wasn't a particularly good story, but it was better than time travel and neither Heather nor I had been able to think of anything better.

"It's my mom's," I said calmly, as if having priceless historical objects laying around in my mom's house was totally normal. "It, uh, it got passed down to her from her grandfather."

"It's an heirloom?" Professor Foxwell replied, baffled. "You have a pristine Viking dagger as a family heirloom, Sophie? I – I mean – is your family Scandinavian?"

"I think so," I replied, shifting my weight from one foot to the other with the discomfort of lying to someone I respected. "Yes, one of my grandparents, or, um, my great-grandparents – I think. One of them was from... Scandinavia. So it's real, then? It's authentic?"

"Oh it's authentic. It's the best example of a Viking dagger – of a Viking anything – that I've ever seen. That anyone has ever seen. I don't know if you understand, Sophie, but this is an incredibly important piece. This is – this is –"

"How much do you think it's worth?" I asked, as Professor Foxwell spluttered and tripped over his words like a teenage boy talking to a pretty girl.

"Worth? How much do I think it's worth? Why? Are you thinking of –"

"Selling it? Yes. My mother says it's mine now and I would like to sell it."

It took another few minutes but I finally got a coherent comment out of the professor after telling him I wanted to sell the dagger. He was going to contact the great auction houses in London and New York, to see what kind of arrangements could be made to auction it off – if I didn't want to donate it to a museum – which I unfortunately did not, because Heather needed a house and she needed enough money to live the rest of her life without the job she was never going to be able to get with her 1983-based skill-set. And although he obviously could not give me a specific number, even the lowest end of the range of possible selling prices Professor Foxwell had given me would be enough to keep my time-traveling friend in the best of circumstances for many, many more years.

* * *

I tried to contain myself. I tried to act normal. Heather and I finished cooking dinner together and Ivar appeared, as if by magic, just as we were laying out the chickens. If I hadn't been bursting with the news of the dagger's worth, I may have said something about it not being cool, in 2018, to storm off in a rage and then just saunter back in without an apology just as dinner was served. But I didn't want to fight in front of Heather and make her uncomfortable, so I mostly restrained myself – well, except for a few aggrieved sighs – when the Viking helped himself to an entire chicken.

And then later, while Heather and I rinsed dishes and cleaned up, she slammed a plate down on the counter, finally, and looked me in the eye.

"What?" I asked, unable to keep a smile off my face as I looked away.

"What?" Heather repeated back to me. "What?! What's gotten into you, girl? You haven't stopped smiling since you took that phone call earlier. Are you pregnant?"

My head jerked up at that word – 'pregnant.' "Am I – what? Am I pregnant? No! Where did you even get that idea? Why would you –"

"Oh, fine!" Heather snapped a tea towel at me. "Not pregnant. Well what is it then? What's got you so –"

That was the precise moment I lost the ability to contain myself for one more second. I put the glass I was holding down on the counter and turned to the older woman as she waited, tapping an impatient foot, for an explanation.

"It's the dagger!" I began, taking her by the shoulders. "Your husband's dagger – it's – Heather, it's worth a lot of money! It's worth a lot more money than either of us thought and that means you don't have to worry about –"

"How much?"

I leaned in closer, as if about to impart a great secret. I even looked around suspiciously, although I wasn't sure why. Who was I looking for? Archeologists lurking in the shadows? "Millions. Professor Foxwell said millions. Not a million. Millions. Millions! Can you believe it?! Heather? Hey – are you – are you OK?"

She stumbled forward, one hand on her forehead and an expression of disbelief on her face. Quickly, I pulled out a chair and urged her to sit. "I'm sorry, I probably should have made you sit down before I told you."

Heather put her hands to her mouth and made a strange sound – was she crying? Laughing? Even when she looked up at me, her eyes glimmering, I still couldn't tell what specific emotion it was that animated the softly worn features of her face. "Millions?" She whispered.

I nodded. "Yes. Enough for you to buy a nice house in the country, with land – and livestock if you like – because you'll have enough to pay someone to help look after them. You won't need to get a job, you won't need to go on welfare – you can live how you like now, for the rest of your life!"

And then she really was crying. Softly at first and then harder. I reached down and put my arms around her shoulders.

"What's that?" I asked, when I couldn't quite make out the whispered, teary words she was speaking.

"He said he would take care of me always. Before he left to go to the next world, when I held his hands as he went, he swore it. He called me Eltha – that was my name to the people then – and he swore that his love would reach through the worlds to protect me. And for a time – for a long time – it seemed to. As others sickened, or found themselves injured or dead, I kept on. And then the Northmen took me as a slave and eventually I just accepted it, Sophie, because that's what you do in that world! You accept things because you know you cannot change them. And just when I was beginning to be sure that I would die a toothless old woman, unknown and unmissed, you showed up and you took me home. And now I find myself here in a third world – because believe me, this is not the same world I left behind – and you're telling me that my husband, my Magnus, kept his promise? That his dagger will keep me in comfort until the time comes to join him?"

I nodded as tears sprang up in my eyes at the thought of Heather's Viking husband, lost now to time, to everything except his wife's memory, swearing on his deathbed to care for her even after he was gone. How wonderful it must have been to be loved like that.

Heather reached up, suddenly, as if reading my mind. "Don't let him go, girl! He wants to be convinced, I see it in his eyes. But you must appeal to his honor – he is a man. Not just a man – a Jarl. You must make him think he stays for duty – for his duty to you."

I sat down in a chair beside Heather, feeling strangely empty. "It won't be the same," I told her. "It won't be the same as what you and – Magnus?"

"Magnus, yes."

"It won't be the same as what you and Magnus had, not if I have to manipulate him into doing it! Not if I have to play the helpless little woman just so he'll stay with –"

"You care too much for your own honor," Heather said gently. "It's alright, I do not condemn you, all young people do it. But I want you to think tonight, before you sleep, about what is worth more. Will your honor keep you warm into old age? Will it sit across the breakfast table from you, with love in its eyes? He loves you – and I think you love him, too –"

I opened my mouth, once again, to protest – to list the reasons why neither I nor the Viking Jarl could possibly be in love – but the old woman just held up her hand.

"Just think, girl. Just think on it. As impossible as I know it is for you to imagine being old, or truly alone, you must try. Look at me – me with no teeth and cramped hands. The East Angles respect the elderly, you know. The Northmen do, too. If someone makes it to my age in that place, people listen to them! So please, listen to me. Think about what you want for your life, think about love. Do not think about what love asks of you, think about what it brings. Because I can tell you, it brings more than it takes. Much more."

"OK," I said quietly, a few moments later. "I will. And Heather, you can get those teeth fixed now, you know. As soon as the dagger is sold."

"And then I'll have a mouthful of perfect white choppers, just like everybody else here!" She laughed.