She fingered the end of her braid, blue eyes faraway. “Because if Asgard’s sons are its walls, its daughters are its bridges. This choice was never mine to make.”

I’d cared for Peter. If he’d loved me the same way, there would never have been any question of sending me away—of forcing me to choose someone else.

Would there?

Doubt ran a cold finger down my arm, and goose bumps rose over my skin.

Maybe it was paranoid. Maybe it was wishful thinking. But for the first time I wondered if Peter had turned me down of his own volition, or if someone else had been involved and made the decision for him. For me.

Fear of Alessandra and all she had done to banish me sang again through my blood, a strident, eerie song. Fear for Daddy. Fear for Potomac.

Maybe Anya and I were in more similar situations than I’d thought.

Anya didn’t go back to the fortress with me. I sat on her bed in her empty room, peeled the endpaper from the back binding, and switched on the radio.

I needed my godmother’s familiar voice in this strange place, her comfort, her guidance.

Daddy needed me. And I needed to know what to do next.

But there was only silence from the other end, only an empty hiss like a foreign language I couldn’t understand.

Dinner was awful.

Anya said she was sick and didn’t feel like coming down, so I pretended to believe her and got ready alone. Skop didn’t wait to walk me down; he, Lang, and Cobie were deep in conversation when I reached Valaskjálf.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?” Cobie asked as I passed them.

Lang shook his head. “Soon, I hope.”

I didn’t know what they were talking about. They didn’t acknowledge me as I walked past, and I tried not to show that it stung.

I thought of Lang’s absence in England, of his search for the woman he’d finally found at the ball, and wondered what he was up to now.

None of Torden’s brothers mentioned their sister’s absence over dinner. Fredrik and Bragi hardly spoke at all, and Hermódr was distracted, sitting nearer their father than usual.

I leaned near to Torden. “Can we talk? What is going on?”

“Hermódr and Pappa are discussing a trade agreement with Sápmi,” he said, a little enviously. “Most of us are better soldiers than politicians, but not Hermódr.”

“And Fredrik and Bragi?” I asked. “What’s wrong with them?”

“Fredrik is angry at me for warning Skop off. And Bragi—well. This is hard for him.” Torden rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m more concerned about how Skop is handling things.”