The old man began in Norsk, his accent cradling the unfamiliar words at the back of his throat before he spoke them. Bragi watched him recite, as still as the hall around us, before interpreting. “Of Kvasir we have heard, the man a gift, and gifted of old with wisdom.”

The skáld spoke again in Norsk, and again, Bragi translated, blue eyes focused. “Of mead we also know, and of its gift to us, poetry.”

It should have been a stilted performance, in high-sounding English and Norsk words that meant nothing to me. But I was helpless against the spell the two of them wove and cast like a net over the room—powerless against Ragnvald’s husky accents and the subtle movements of his hands, against Bragi’s clear voice and careful rhythm.

“I should have been studying,” I whispered to Torden, only inches away. “It would be nice to be able to understand the story in your language.”

He fiddled with a ragged cuticle, white gloves abandoned on his lap. “If we get married, I’ll help you.” Torden shifted, and his shoulder bumped mine.

I stuffed my elbows inside the arms of my chair, nerves abruptly on edge, and nodded over at Bragi. “Do you ever . . . ?”

He shook his head. “No, never. I’m a poor speaker.”

“I don’t believe that for a minute,” I said quietly.

He glanced at me, eyes startled again beneath their guarded cast. Torden wasn’t an attention seeker—that, I believed—but there had been no mistaking the respectful looks that had followed him all day, that were trained on him even now.

“People would listen. I would, anyway,” I added quietly.

Torden shifted again and took my hand under the table.

From that point, I heard nothing. The hall could’ve caught fire around me and I wouldn’t have noticed, so keen was the thrill of panic in my blood. Torden’s large, callused hand made my own look almost delicate. It also made my palms sweat.

I wanted to be near him. But barely a week ago I’d been wanting someone else, kissing someone else. What sort of fickle heart could feel so much for two people, a week apart?

Did it matter, with what lay in wait for me ahead and at home? Could I afford to move slowly, the risks being what they were?

If I hoped to get back to Daddy and avoid the Imperiya, I had to get engaged.

If I hoped to fall in love—truly in love, recovered from my hurt—I ought to take my time.

I couldn’t breathe. I wriggled my slick hand from Torden’s grasp to reach for my cup.

The move would have been more convincing if I hadn’t used my right hand to stretch for an object well to my left. Skop winced.