“Do not blame him. I chose this.” Anya’s voice was defiant, even as it broke. Her halo braid had half fallen down, and her eyes were red. “He was so sad, Torden. And I am so tired,” she spat, “of being told I am not my own.” She swiped angrily at the tears leaking down her cheeks.

The boys fidgeted, avoiding her gaze. None of them spoke.

Finally, Bragi held out a hand. “Let me take you upstairs,” he offered quietly.

“No, I’ll do it.” Fredrik pushed past him and put an arm around Anya’s shoulder. Bragi watched, frustrated, as Fredrik steered his sister out of the silent hall.

Suddenly, Lang was at my side. “Are you all right?”

Torden crouched before me, running his rough palms over my arms. “I thought Aleksei was taking you back to the bonfires.”

“I wanted you,” I whispered. I glanced up, and Lang’s eyes skipped away, searching the dead ashes in the fireplace. “Aleksei told me an awful story.”

Torden glanced at me sharply. “What did he tell you?”

“About your brothers,” I said. “About how Baldr passed away. A year ago tonight.”

Torden met Hermódr’s eyes, and his mouth twisted, reluctant and miserable. “I see.”

It seemed impossible that hands with so many split knuckles and calluses could be tender, but Torden was gentle as he led me from Valaskjálf, bidding the others a quiet good night. “I was waiting for the right time to explain. I’m so sorry you heard it from Aleksei.”

My stomach turned. “It’s a horrible story. I understand why you weren’t in a hurry to tell it.”

“Hermódr was the one who found him,” he said. “He went looking for help alone after he found the boys. He had to comfort Rihttá alone when he finally reached her and my father. He’s practically her own son now, but neither of them has been the same since.”

Hermódr had looked ill at Aleksei’s very first mention of Midsummer’s Eve. Now I understood the disquiet in his face, the sadness in his mother’s eyes.

Worry for Skop and Anya consumed me, but I wished I knew Rihttá well enough to offer her some comfort on this miserable anniversary.

“Who do you think told on them?” I asked. “Skop and Anya, I mean.”

Torden sighed. “Things were probably getting too quiet around here for Aleksei.”

“Aleksei?” I stared at him. “Aleksei told on them? Didn’t he know what would happen?”

“Selah, I told you, he loves to stir the pot. He is not malicious, but his childhood in Yotunkheym, it—” Torden broke off. “He strikes the matches because he wants to watch something burn. Because then, maybe, my father will pay attention. Maybe he can forget last Midsummer.” He shook his head, pressing his fingers to his brow.