The next morning, Thoren was up bright and early (or, more precisely given Scandinavian winter night lengths, dark and early). I, however, refused to relinquish our burrow of blankets until his body warmth had dissipated entirely and I woke a second time, shivering furiously. A quick peek out the window showed that the sun hadn't even risen yet, even though the clock claimed that morning was well advanced. In the pre-dawn gloom, bright yellow spots bobbed along the streets — lanterns carried by townspeople accustomed to long wintry nights. Why the first settlers chose such a dreary wasteland was quite beyond me. Cursing both Thoren for bringing me here and myself for agreeing to this visit, I threw on as many layers of undergarments and dresses as humanly possible, transformed myself into a cotton-and-wool sausage, and pelted headlong down the stairs towards the living room. Before I could reach it, though, Thoren's voice drifted from the dining room.

"Marina, we're in here."

But that wasn't where the fireplace was! Still, a guest — especially an unofficial significant other — wasn't free to defrost at her leisure. Reluctantly abandoning the beckoning flames, I detoured to the entryway, grabbed my cloak, and swathed myself in it. Only then did I enter the dining room, where apparently everyone else had just about finished breakfast.

From the head of the table, Signy greeted me with a polite "Good morning, Marina" that was practically drowned out by the children's gleeful cries of "You're la-ate!" and "Grandma always says that if you're late, you don't get to eat!"

Now wouldn't it have been nice if someone — oh, say, Thoren — had warned me about Signy's house rules? Made clumsy by self-consciousness, I dragged out the chair beside him with a horrible screech and half-tumbled into it. "Why didn't you tell me that?" I hissed at him.

He shrugged apologetically and whispered back, "I forgot that Mother is obsessed about everyone eating together. Don't worry — I don't think she'll hold a guest to it."

At Signy's regal nod, a servant silently (and censoriously) offered me a plate and bread roll. Ignoring Harald's and Alf's crestfallen expressions and avoiding Karina's gaze, I began to tear off pieces of bread and butter them.

"So, what are your plans for today?" Signy asked Ynez, treating her as our spokeswoman. (Ynez patted her hair and sat up a little straighter, exuding gravitas.) "Karina plans to take the children skiing as soon as the sun rises. You're welcome to join them."

Skiing? Karina was taking her children outside in this weather? Even Astera, who collected orphans for the sake of binding them to gods who could help her Ascend, never attained that level of cruelty.

While I cast about for a polite rejection, Ynez replied smoothly, "Thank you, but House matters require my attention. Since it was difficult to keep up with them on the road, I have been somewhat remiss in my obligations."

What an excellent diplomatic way of saying absolutely nothing! As far as I knew, no urgent matters — or matters of any kind, really — had arisen on the road. If they had, Ynez the Conscientious would have dealt with them immediately. Not to mention consulted me. I was her Secunda, after all. Seriously, she could just have said "our" attention.

Zoe, however, surprised me by accepting the invitation. "I've heard of this 'skiing.' It does sound like an efficient means of transportation through the snow. Ynez, if our travels often take us up North, we may all want to learn how to ski," she said earnestly.

Ynez considered for a moment. "Yes," she decided. "That does seem wise. Perhaps you can investigate and report this evening?"

Cheeks slightly flushed, Zoe nodded vigorously.

While I was still fumbling for an excuse to avoid any more bonding time with the snow, with which I'd already bonded quite thoroughly on the road, thank you very much, Signy turned to her son. "Thoren, dear, what about you?"

Ever the loyal life-partner-to-whom-I-wasn't-married, he promptly answered, "Marina wanted to visit the bookseller. I assume Bjorn's Books is still in business?"

"Bjorn retired years ago, dear. A newcomer bought his shop and inventory. Odd, I think his name is? He travels an awful lot." A slight downturn of the lips summarized Signy's opinion of the peripatetic lifestyle.

"Helga saw him in the general store yesterday. I can drop off Marina on our way out of town," Karina suggested. "Stay and chat with Mother, Thoren."

"But," he objected, frowning a little, "aren't you leaving right after breakfast? I was planning to wait until it warms up."

Feeling a surge of gratitude for all the little ways in which he showed his love, I opened my mouth to offer to leave with the skiers.

But Karina stymied my expression of self-sacrifice. "You've been away far too long, Thoren. The temperature won't change that much over the course of the day. And the sun will set around 3:00 anyway."

At that, Thoren hesitated, as if casting about for a different excuse, and looked at me inquiringly. In such a situation, what choice did I have? Faking a smile, I uttered the obligatory, "I'll be fine, Thoren. I won't be outside long anyway. You should spend time with your mother."

Signy, who might have spared her son for the length of a bookstore visit, accepted my sacrifice with alacrity. "Yes, dear, and I think it's past time for you to sort through all the trunks you sent here when you moved to Greece. They've been sitting in the attic gathering dust."

Thoren looked strikingly like the way the orphans did when Astera assigned them extra (remedial) Enochian exercises, but he nodded obediently.

In between carrying Alf through the deeper snowdrifts, shouting at Harald to "get back here this instant," and dragging Birgit away from the general store's display of pocketknives, Karina finally succeeded in dropping me off half a block from the bookstore. "It's just three buildings down," she panted, sweaty despite the freezing — literally freezing — air. (This holiday season, you don't need a cloak; keep yourself warm with child-wrangling!) "I'll see you this afternoon."

"Good luck skiing," I called after Zoe.

The red-cloaked figure stiffened slightly, but didn't deign to respond.

Chuckling, I ran the last half-block over trampled snow and found myself in front of the tiniest, shabbiest, most unimpressive "bookstore" ever. It only qualified as a bookstore because it was an enclosed space and sold books. The interior was dark and cramped, not to mention unheated, and I nearly banged my head on a cloak hook in the miniscule entryway when I turned to stamp the snow from my boots. Seriously, what was the point of having a row of cloak hooks when no one sane would ever frequent this place?

"Don't be so judgmental," Cly reproved. Sitting alertly at her desk, she'd already cut a fresh quill and dipped its tip in her inkwell. Now she poised it over a fresh sheet of parchment. "Maybe the Norse have more compact ways of storing information than papyrus scrolls or codices. Don't stand here scowling! Go find out!"

Rearranging my features into something that wasn't a grimace, I poked my head through a narrow doorway into a maze of tall bookcases lit only by pale grey light from the front window. "Hello?" I called tentatively.

No answer. If this miniature labyrinth had a resident Minotaur, it wasn't hungry.

Shrugging, I walked around the first bookcase and peered at its contents. Contrary to Cly's suggestion, dust-encrusted tomes blinked back sleepily through thick veils of cobwebs. The librarian in me recoiled in disgust. "Apparently the Sleepers here don't read much," I griped.

Cly, bibliophile extraordinaire, agreed completely. "This is sacrilege!" she proclaimed. "Who is this Odd person? How dare he treat books this way and call himself a bookseller?"

Steeling myself, I brushed the dust off a random volume and slid it out, doing my best to sneeze away from the book. Historia Norwegiæ, the title page read. "Oh hey, Cly, they have Latin books!" To myself I added, Maybe this godsforsaken corner of the uncivilized world is just the slightest bit cultured.

"That's a new book! I've never heard of it! What else is there?" Cly demanded, pressing up against the inside of my skull in her eagerness. Blowing at the dust, I began rattling off titles, all by authors unknown back home. "Marina, Marina, we have to translate these into Greek!"

"Uh, we might have time to translate one of them while we're here, but it's going to be hard when we're back on the road…."

"And that's why I keep telling you and telling you to stay out of the flow of history! If you were a proper historian, you'd have all the time in the world to translate these books, because you wouldn't be running around attacking and getting attacked by the gods themselves!"

Before I could respond to this ancient, pointless argument, a low chuckle interrupted us. As if we'd been bickering out loud — which I was positive we had not — the unhurried, gravelly voice of an old man pointed out, "Ah, but it isn't in the nature of demigods to live quiet lives of contemplation and study, and you knew that from the start, Clio."

Spinning around, I found myself face to face with a wizened old man who wore a patch over one eye. "What — how — " I sputtered.

He swept me a creaky bow that nearly knocked over a waist-high stack of books on the floor. "Odd Hrolfsson at your service, ladies."

Cly bounded out of my head, fuming. "Who are you? What are you?" she demanded. "How do you know who I am? How do you know what she is? And why in the world are your books so dusty?"

"Who am I?" he mused rhetorically, amused by her temper. "If my hotheaded young Tytalan here — is that redundant, I wonder? — weren't so confident that there's nothing worthwhile in this humble village, she might answer that question herself."

I flushed. He was right. Confident that a tiny, rural Sleeper town could hold no surprises, I hadn't bothered to perform any Ars Vis scans. Mentally cursing my hubris, I spat out a few words in Enochian. In a flash, brilliant white light blazed from the old man's skin, blinding me with layers and layers of intricate wards in all nine Artes. Instinctively, I leapt backwards — right into a jagged, waist-high rock. "Oww!" I cried, trying to rub my eyes and my leg at the same time. "Oww! That was completely unnecessary!"

Odin merely smirked at me. "Was it?" he inquired. "And have you been humbled, O daughter of Memory?"

Before I could answer, Cly shoved past me and threw herself at the stone, embracing it like a long-lost sister. "Marina," she breathed reverently. "Just look at this."

Still rubbing my eyes resentfully and blinking away afterimages, I swept my skirts to the side in a huff and bent over for a closer look. Eons ago, a sculptor had sedulously smoothed a sparkly grey boulder and chiseled out intricate, stylized carvings. A wild border of tangled loops and knots raced around a battlefield, as if preventing the heroes from fighting their way off the very stone.

Well, what did you know? Cly was right about alternative methods of recording information after all, although I wouldn't exactly call this boulder more compact.

"Who is that?" I asked Odin curiously, pointing at a huge man brandishing something — I leaned closer and squinted — a hammer? — at a young woman wreathed in springtime blossoms.

"There are more gods in the world than yours," the irritating old god reminded me, "however dear they may be."

Dear indeed. Indignant, I opened my mouth to tell him exactly what I thought of my divine family, but Cly jumped in. "Who are they? What did they do? When did they live? Do you have books on them?" In her excitement, she actually seized his arm and shook it for emphasis.

Reclaiming his appendage with a tolerant chuckle, he said benevolently, "But of course. If you ladies will follow me?"

Cly promptly traipsed after him, although she couldn't resist casting a final, wistful glance at the stone. I stared after her, shaking my head and hoping she wouldn't insist on carving our next joint composition into a rock. That might take a while, especially if we wanted to spell it so the figures moved —

Wait a minute, the figures moved?

On instinct, my hand shot into my pocket. Fingers wrapped around my knife, I glared at the stone. For a long moment, nothing happened, and I was on the verge of blaming sleep-deprivation-induced hallucinations when the flower-clad maiden lifted an arm. From her fingertips streamed a bar of smoke. Then she froze again.

Murmuring in Enochian, I brushed the carvings with my fingertip, painstakingly deciphering the interlocked Artes Vis, Conjunctionis, and Materiae Effects woven into the stone. It obviously showed a scene that was unfolding elsewhere —

"Marina!" Cly's voice pierced the dusty air. "Where are you?"

"Coming, coming." Giving the stone one last frown and ascertaining that it hadn't changed again, I obeyed her summons.

Thoren's favorite god and my importunate avatar huddled in front of a shelf of books in Old Norse. "Here's one on the history of the North. It starts with the creation of the world, when there was nothing but Muspell and Niflheim," he intoned, sounding almost like a priest. Breaking off at my approach, he added entirely unnecessarily, "Although young Marina here might call all of Norway Niflheim."

"What's Niflheim?" Cly demanded before I could even frame a retort.

"Why, it's the realm of ice." Odin winked — or blinked — his one eye at me. "As Muspell is the realm of fire. And where the two met in the great void of Ginnungagap, there life began."

"That contradicts history as I know it." Cly eyed him suspiciously, as though suspecting him of corrupting the historical record. We might have problems if she insisted on burning this entire bookstore. (You'd think she and Zoe would be best friends.)

"Who truly knows how the world began?" Odin asked philosophically. "Before humans, before spirits, before writing, before speech itself? As well say that in the beginning there was emptiness and darkness, and into it burst Quintessence, which divided the void into Reality and the Umbra. And Ars Essentiae was the force that melted the frozen reaches..."

There was a hypnotic quality to his words. Before my eyes rose a vision of a barren, colorless wasteland — bleached white snow below, faded grey skies above, and between them black, skeletal trees. Then a white-hot fireball exploded overhead and rained down droplets of golden warmth, and they melted the snow and dissolved the clouds, and under a fresh blue sky, the wizened branches sprouted verdant growth.

"Ars Essentiae," I murmured to myself, barely aware what I was saying. "Yes, Ars Essentiae."

"What — " Cly began to ask Odin sharply, but she was interrupted by a familiar voice from the direction of the door.

"Mariiiiiina!" Shuffling footsteps followed, plus sneezing, and soon a rather dusty Ynez materialized beside us, her spear and sword half-hidden by the folds of her cloak. "Achoo!" She sniffled noisily. "Marina, do you have a handker- " Breaking off abruptly, she stared wide-eyed at Odin for one split second before rummaging frantically through her pockets.

The old god snickered. "And what is this?" he asked mockingly. "A dwarf?"

I didn't even need to see Ynez's face to sense an imminent bear attack. Trying to defuse the situation, I donned formality like armor (rather like Thoren, now that I thought about it). "This is my sister, Magistra Scholae and Prima Ynez Murillo bani Tytalus." With a flourish, Ynez yanked out a silver-backed mirror, her Ars Manes Focus, and brandished it like a dagger. Keeping a wary eye on the air around her, I finished, "Ynez, this is Odin."

To my surprise, the god flinched when Ynez tipped up her head to stare directly into his one good eye.

"Oh no, it isn't," she stated flatly. Pounding the butt of the spear on the floor (and raising an appropriately dramatic dust cloud), she commanded, "Take off that ridiculous eyepatch right this instant, Loki."

With a pop, the eyepatch vanished, the wrinkles smoothed into youthful skin, and the hunched figure transformed into a handsome, bright-eyed, young man. With almost-credible meekness, the trickster god inquired, "How did you know, Magistra?"

Ynez's lips curled scornfully. "I grew up with the spirit of street urchins." Tucking the mirror back into her pocket, she continued disdainfully, "Did you really believe you could trick a mistress of Ars Manes? You're a spirit, Loki. From everything I've learned about the Norse pantheon, Odin and the rest of the Æsir are ancient, powerful mages. Just like the ones we've been fighting," she clarified helpfully.

"Ah, yes," he muttered, eyeing her spear and edging backwards. "So I've heard."

"But what are you doing here?" I burst out. "Not that this isn't a, umm, very nice little town." In the middle of nowhere, I added silently, knowing he'd hear anyway. "But it seems a little — quiet?"

"Ummmm." In the shadow of the divine spear, he actually attempted to shrink in on himself. "I'm on a meditative retreat?" he suggested hopefully.

"Ha, nice try." I skewered him with my best big-sister glare.

Giving up that tack, he sighed and draped himself dramatically against a bookcase (which, as proof of his incorporeal nature, didn't even wobble). "My family never appreciates the things I do for them. Since Thor has practically cleared Scandinavia of giants, he's gotten bored and flabby and quarrelsome. So I invited Persephone and her child to Sweden and, well." He cocked his head to the side and spread his hands helplessly, as if war and Plague were merely unfortunate side effects of Thor's ennui.

Ynez turned livid with fury. "You invited Persephone here?" she spat out. "All those innocent men, women, and children who have already died in the battles between her and the Æsir, the thousands more who will perish in the epidemic to come — you caused that deliberately?" Her fingers went white from clenching the spear shaft.

"What battles between Persephone and the Æsir?" I demanded. No one — especially not my sister and Prima — had mentioned any such battles to me.

"Later, Marina," she said tersely, not taking her eyes off Loki.

"But — "

"Are you my Secunda or not?" she snapped. "I said I'll brief you later!"

Once I would have matched her shout for shout in a heartbeat — but the Bear Incident had taught me some modicum of self-restraint (and self-preservation). "Yes, of course, you're right, this isn't the time, it can wait," I babbled, taking a precautionary step backwards. "Uh, calm down, Ynez?"

"Calm down! Calm down? How can you possibly ask me to calm down when this — this — this despicable little spirit thinks he has the right to destroy thousands of lives just because he's bored?"

I took another step back, but obviously Loki hadn't gotten the memo about the bear. "Hey, wait a minute," he protested in an injured voice, "I said Thor was getting bored, not me!"

"As if anyone believes that." Ynez's voice was scathing.

Trying again to distract her, I repeated my question to Loki: "You haven't told us yet what you're doing in this town."

"Ummmm…." He stared around himself wildly, as if scouring the bookshelves for inspiration.

"Let me guess," Ynez said flatly, with all the certainty of Death. "This is one of your boltholes. You're in hiding from your family. They're currently occupied by fighting Persephone and her child, but as soon as they drive her away — and they will, out of sheer numbers — they'll comb the northern lands for you. When they find you — and they will, again out of sheer numbers — they will punish you."

"I'll make it right," he whined.

"No, you won't. You can't. Not for those who have died pointless, premature deaths due directly to your actions."

A crafty grin crept over Loki's lips. "But you're the Queen of Death herself," he wheedled. "If these deaths are so pointless, surely you can reverse them."

During the past few years, Ynez had received so many petitions to return loved ones that she didn't even blink. "No," she replied evenly. "That's not how this works. You are the one responsible for this tragedy. You will bear the consequences."

Heaving out a melodramatic sigh worthy of Sy, Loki flung wide his arms. "So be it. Do what you will, O Grand High Splendiferous Majesty. Crucify me, burn me at the stake, banish me to the depths of Tartarus, bind me to a rock with a serpent's venom dripping into my eyes until Ragnarok!"

"No, that would be too kind. You need to go fix this."

"Fix this?" For the first time, Loki looked genuinely shocked. "Child, I start wars. I don't end them!"

"Then it's high time you started learning, isn't it?" Ynez asked implacably.

"I — "

"I am the Queen of Hades and the Warden of the Spirits, and I command you to make things right in southern Sweden!"

Although Loki whined for another minute, his protests were clearly pro forma, and his eyes had already gone distant, as if he were thinking furiously about how one rescinded an invitation to death and disease. Warily, Ynez pointed her speartip at him until he swept her an exaggeratedly elaborate bow. "Most Majestic and Magnificent Majesty, it shall be as you desire."

And he vanished.

Leaving me alone in the glacial bookstore with my sister and Prima, who apparently didn't trust me enough in either capacity to apprise me of pivotal developments. Folding my arms across my chest, I stared down at her and asked tightly, "So — when exactly did you find out about Sweden?"

Defiantly, she lifted her chin and met my glare. "I received a message last night," she enunciated.

Hurt swept through me. She'd known for half a day, and she hadn't even hinted at it? "So why didn't you tell me?"

A mulish expression crossed the face of the Most Majestic and Magnificent Majesty. Sounding exactly like the petulant teenager she was, Ynez whined, "You were in bed already." With Thoren, her tone accused.

Well, yes, as I had been for years. Never before had she displayed any compunction about tearing me from my lover's arms in the middle of the night. With more than a little asperity, I pointed out, "You could have knocked — like you always do. Or if you didn't want to disturb my sweet slumber, you could have told me this morning." Then a horrible suspicion flashed through my mind. "Did you tell Zoe already?"

A slight shift in her gaze answered that question.

"Ynez, she's not even in our House!"

"I know perfectly well who's on our roster, thank you very much Marina. But I am the Prima. It is my prerogative to decide when and to whom I divulge sensitive information," she proclaimed so loftily that I nearly whacked her with a book. "Anyway," she groused, "why should I tell you everything all the time? You didn't exactly tell me about Thoren."

Wow — were we really fighting over my relationship with her bete noire while war and disease raged on our very doorstep? Our timing needed serious work. But we were Tytalans, after all, and conflict was our byword.

"That's completely different!" I sputtered, diving headlong into the clash. "That's — that's — my private affair!" She snorted at the poor word choice. "This is House business! I am the Secunda of House Tytalus! And anyway," I reminded her irritably, "I did tell you about Thoren."

"Only after you started dating him!"

"No, if you're going to hold a childish grudge, at least get your timeline straight! I told you before we started dating. I told you when I was writing those essays to convince him to accept me as a student."

"That's not how I remember it," she pouted, in that tone she used when she knew she was wrong but categorically refused to admit it.

Sometimes I let it slide, but not today. Not when I was freezing and grumpy and sleep deprived. "Of the two of us, Ynez, which one has the perfect memory? Which one is the daughter of Memory herself?"

Before I'd even finished speaking, a faint, bear-shaped image shimmered in the air next to her. Fully aware that I was escalating the situation and not caring one single bit, I whipped out my pocketknife. If she wanted a re-match, so be it. For long minutes, we glared straight into each other's eyes, each daring the other to back down. Finally, chest heaving from the effort, Ynez wrestled back her wrath. Slowly, ever so slowly, the bear faded back into the Umbra. Even more slowly, I lowered my pocketknife.

"Regardless," Ynez hissed, clenching the spear shaft so tightly that the blood drained from her fingers, "the point is that I am the Prima of House Tytalus, and I get to decide what to tell you. And when." Spinning on her booted heel, she flounced out of the shop, slamming the door behind her so hard that dust cascaded from the rafters.

Grabbing the closest volume of Norse myths, I flung a few coins on the counter and stormed out myself.

The next few days passed with excruciating awkwardness. Feigning deafness and blindness when we crossed paths, Ynez and I resolutely ignored each other. Thoren, who might have reasoned me into a more mature state of mind, barely noticed. Pursuant to Signy's wishes, he closeted himself in the attic or conversed with his mother in her sitting room. While they smiled in a preoccupied manner every time I walked past, neither invited me to join them and I was sensible enough not to try.

At last, bored out of my mind (nearly as bored as Loki pre-Sweden) and desperate to escape the assessing looks that Karina kept slanting my way, I climbed the rickety ladder, pushed up the trapdoor, and poked my head and shoulders into the attic. Through a small window fell a bar of pallid light that cast all the dust motes into high relief. Wooden chests, broken furniture, and old toys loomed on all sides. In their shadow knelt Thoren, holding a small lantern over an open trunk. A wistful, regretful smile flickered over his lips, but it vanished as soon as I sneezed.

"Marina!" he exclaimed, thumping the lid down and setting the lantern on top of it. "What are you doing up here? It's too cold for you."

As if this sudden solicitude after days of neglect weren't suspicious at all. "I was taking a break from studying," I said, clambering awkwardly onto the attic floor. "I thought I'd see what you were up to."

"Oh." He hesitated for just a hair too long. "I left Norway in such a hurry that I didn't sort through all my old, um, papers." He forced a chuckle. "You can't imagine how many reams of problem sets and essays I've gone through in the past few days."

"I could help," I offered, wondering with a pang whether aforementioned papers included notes that he and Inga passed in class. Ynez and I had been too conscientious, but the godlings had slipped one another a library's worth of commentary on how boring Enochian was; how absolutely fascinating Enochian was and hey, Marina, look, we're talking about class; and — most importantly — when in the world Tel would figure out that Ynez had the hugest crush on him ever. I'd bet that Bonisagi apprentices exchanged equally scintillating epistles.

Thoren, however, displayed less faith in his House's literary output. "Ummm. Doesn't Ynez need you? Aren't you always complaining that she dumps all the logistics in your lap?"
She most certainly did — and House finances were probably suffering from our estrangement. (Assuming, of course, that she hadn't re-assigned all my duties to Zoe.) "Thoren," I began, debating whether to tell him about our fight. But then I'd have to reveal the battle in Sweden, and he'd feel obligated to cut short this visit so we could aid the Æsir. It wouldn't be fair to tear him from his family again so soon.

"Yes?" he asked, restlessly tapping his fingers on the lid of the trunk.

"I have some free time," I said instead. "It would be fun to see your old homework. I bet you got full points on everything, right?"

"Marina," he temporized. "Look, Marina, I appreciate the offer, but some of these papers are...personal in nature. I'd really prefer to go through them myself."

"What personal papers?" I blurted out. "You mean love letters?"

With a heavy sigh, he ran his hand through his hair. "Marina, we've gone through all of this before. I did have a life before I met you."

So I was right then. I'd caught him in the middle of perusing his billets-doux, and he didn't appreciate the interruption. "I see," I answered, sounding more injured than I'd intended.

Pinching the bridge of his nose in the way he did when he was particularly exhausted and stressed, he appealed, "Marina, this — all of this — " he gestured around the attic, but I guessed he meant his homecoming — "hasn't been — easy for me. I'd be grateful if you gave me some time alone to...process things."

I didn't like it, but I did understand. Gods knew how many nights I'd snuck out of the orphanage to brood in the neighboring olive grove, recalling with my perfect memory the faces of my mother and all my godling siblings, and wishing passionately that I could see them one more time, just one more time. Where were they now? What were they doing? Was Astera content that she'd achieved her centuries'-old dream? Did Sy still pickpocket everyone in sight? Did Helen still give the best hugs? Did Lil still regret sacrificing her human life to Astera's ambition? Did Gordon still lead the mice? Did the godlings even still call themselves the mice?

But even if I'd never see my family again, Thoren at least was back, and right now he was gazing at me with a plea in his eyes. No matter how much we all tended to view the unflappable ex-Primus as impervious to the slings and arrows of outsized ambition (my entire family's, that is), he was still human, and this attic was his olive grove.

I understood.

With a contrite nod, I eased myself back down the ladder. "Of course. I'll leave you to it, then."

I did note that when I shut the trapdoor behind me, he still hadn't reopened the trunk.

Even if Thoren were oblivious, Zoe most certainly observed the estrangement between Ynez and me. For days, the Inquisitor hovered anxiously (and irritatingly), as if torn between ecstasy at having Ynez to herself, and worry at the damage to our sisterly bonds. Eventually I lost my patience with her clumsy attempts to play confessor. Plonking myself and my books in a corner of the living room, I composed an elegy for summer, my Focus for an Ars Fati ritual to make everyone just happen to miss seeing me. Almost immediately, though, I discovered that the heat didn't extend very far from the fireplace and that any bodies (e.g. other humans or pieces of furniture) between me and the fire reduced the warmth dramatically. Still, I couldn't just plant myself directly in front it, because the logs needed constant tending and all the Ars Fati in the world wouldn't keep a servant from noticing if she tripped right over me.

It was then, as I desperately rubbed my icy hands, that Loki's story about the creation of the world came to the rescue. Remembering the vision of Ars Essentiae melting a frozen Reality, I carved a slender flame and funneled heat from the fireplace towards me, draping it around my shoulders like a blanket. Much better. I'd accrue more Paradox from the Effect, of course, but better a backlash than hypothermia.

In this sullen mood, I was huddled over the book of Norse myths one morning when I overheard Ynez speaking with Signy and Karina. "Soror Zoe and I need to go to confession. Is there a church nearby?"

The Norwegians exchanged long looks before Signy responded slowly, "No, we do not have one. The next town over does, though."

Zoe's lips pressed together tightly, and it was her turn to exchange a very significant look with Ynez that boded ill for paganism in the North. Perhaps she'd write to House Quaesitor and urge them to bring the fires of the Inquisition. If they warmed this Niflheim, I'd even support the endeavor.

"It's rather far on foot, especially in this snow," Karina said doubtfully. "We could lend you skis, but I'm not sure Ynez knows how to use them?"

Ynez gave a little shake of her head. Both of us knew that I could easily summon a wind disk for them. But if she didn't ask, I certainly wasn't going to offer.

"Thoren, perhaps you should guide them — " Signy began, but he cut her off with a firm shake of the head.

"Mother, Ynez and Zoe are mages," he reminded her. "They're perfectly capable of handling themselves."

Eyeing Ynez dubiously, Signy resigned herself to her son's judgment. "Very well then. Just follow the main road east, and keep going until you come to a fork. There should be a runestone to mark the path. Make sure you turn right there. Then keep going until you pass a large farmhouse with a red barn…." She rambled on in this imprecise vein for a few minutes, bewildering the two churchgoers with a deluge of well-intentioned details. At last she concluded, "And the church will be on the edge of the forest. You can't miss it."

Zoe looked as if she wanted badly to retort that maybe she couldn't miss the church once she was standing in front of it — but reaching that spot would be the problem.

"Yes, thank you," said Ynez with a determined lift of her chin. To the obvious delight of the children, her peacock appeared on the floor and strutted around the dining table. "We should have no trouble."

Ever since she'd led us straight into a dark swamp while hunting Apollo, the god of light, we'd known better than to trust her sense of direction. From my vantage point, I stared at her incredulously. Was she really too proud to ask me to map the path via Ars Conjunctionis?

Yes, yes she was. Without a backward glance, her peacock perched defiantly on her shoulder, she strode out the door.

Although I tried valiantly to lose myself in Asgard again, nagging worries kept jerking me back into the real world. Just how far away was this church? How long would it take Ynez and Zoe to walk there? Theoretically, either of them could summon wind disks, but they'd never bothered to practice the Effect because I was the Ars Essentiae specialist. Anyway, even if they succeeded, neither knew Ars Conjunctionis or even Ars Fati, meaning that if they got lost, they'd never find the road again. But then again, if they did get lost, they shouldn't actually freeze to death, because they could warm themselves magically...except if they botched. Or simply failed the Effect. Or fell into a ravine and knocked themselves out so they couldn't even attempt the Effect. Or —

By this time I'd worked myself into a panic. Pelting upstairs to my bedroom, I nearly tore a sheet of parchment in half as I yanked it out of my pack. Casting it onto the bed, I rummaged frantically through my satchel, tossing wood carvings all over the floor, until I extracted a quill. Then I sat down on the bed, inhaled and exhaled deeply to steady my hands (my breath froze instantly), and began to write. At Cly's urging, I'd adopted calligraphy as a Focus for Ars Conjunctionis so I could copy manuscripts while performing Effects. This particular page was part of Ovid's Ars Amatoria, which I was reproducing from memory for Ynez as a Christmas gift. (I'd conceived of the project months ago, after she spent an entire evening sighing wistfully over Tel and wondering how long his relationship with Verrus would last.)

As I painstakingly inscribed lines of poetry that educated women about the complexities of romantic love, a vast, white landscape filled my vision. In the shadow of towering mountains, two tiny figures laboriously broke a path through knee-high snow. I didn't even need to zoom in to know that the taller one walked in front while the shorter one leaned into a spear like a walking stick. Scanning ahead, I located the church, a surprisingly elegant wooden structure with golden-brown walls and many dark, sharply-sloped roofs. The door was adorned with an intricate carving in the same style as Loki's stone, although this one depicted a man ramming his sword upward through a dragon's belly while the beast arched back and bellowed in agony.

"One of the saints?" I asked Cly.

Without looking up from a book, she shook her head disapprovingly. "You need to read faster, Marina. That's Sigurd, from the Saga of the Volsungs, slaying the dragon Fafnir." Growing more animated, she lectured, "Remember that epic poem we read in the Holy Roman Empire while we were negotiating with Ares? The Nibelungenlied? They're basically two versions of the same story — "

While she rattled on with a scholarly comparison of the sources, I explored the interior of the church. Elegant elongated animals appeared out of and merged back into the omnipresent carved plaits that wove their way around archways. Loathe as I was to admit that such a bleak wasteland could hold any beauty, I had to confess, "Maybe we should have gone with them."

Since I'd set up the Effect already anyway, I figured that I might as well spend the afternoon copying the Ars Amatoria and analyzing historic architecture. It most certainly had nothing to do with checking on Ynez periodically.

To my relief, she and Zoe reached the church around noon and began their confessions, leaving them plenty of time to return before sundown, especially if they followed their own footsteps back. A couple hours later, though, I realized with a start that the light was dying but they still hadn't returned. Quickly I scried for them again — only to discover that they'd followed the wrong set of tracks and turned off goodness-knew-where. As they fought their way through snow drifts, every step took them further from the village.

Nightfall loomed. This was no time for grudges.

Setting down my quill, I ran some hasty calculations. Yes, I could summon a wind disk from here and direct it to pick them up and carry them back. But the further I was from them, the harder the Effect would be to control and maintain. Far safer would be flying to them myself. Of course, that would force me to back down and acknowledge Ynez's existence first — but as soon as a wind disk popped up next to her, she'd know that I'd caved in anyway. Well, it just couldn't be helped.

Whittling a small cloud, leaving the pages of the Ars Amatoria scattered all over the bed, I leaped out the window onto a wind disk. It wasn't even until I was sailing over the heads of awed Sleepers that I remembered Thoren's warning about Paradox backlashes.