anda varrid ins om ennung / lindanna fjeura blommid anyo / enndast efdar deen orn varrid torrid was the latest refrain—until he bled on the meadows / linden flowers bloomed anew / only after the bird bled dry.

Finally, through the hungry branches scraping against the hood of the car, I saw the iron gate and the tall stone wall that surrounded the city. As we rolled toward it, the music in my head fell silent.

Ridley talked to the guard at the gate, who waved us through. The main road was narrow, winding through the rows of small cottages buried in overgrown bushes. Making matters even more slow going, the streets were lined with pedestrians—mostly trolls, but plenty of chickens, rabbits, goats, and several fat donkeys.

We turned in front of the palace—a large, stocky building of gray stone. The castle’s cold façade was broken up with stained-glass windows depicting various events in the Kanin history. The palace was on the far south side of the city, along the wall, and Ridley drove us around it, past a trio of modern apartment buildings.

He parked in front of one closest to the wall, and led me up the three flights of stairs. As he opened the door, he announced cheekily, “Welcome to the penthouse suite.”

Their apartment was small, but the ceilings were high and the sparse, light décor made it feel cool and open. White walls with clean lines, blond wooden floors, and potted plants were everywhere.

“We don’t really have a ‘guest room,’ but there’s a futon in the office.” He motioned to the open door off the living room. “The bathroom’s next to it if you wanna freshen up.”

“Thanks,” I told him, and I took him up on the offer. After I finished in the bathroom, I went to the office to drop my bag on the futon.

It was a small room with pale smoky gray walls, a narrow bookcase, and a sleek blond desk with a laptop, a succulent in a jar, and a notepad. On the walls, photos had been hung in copper frames—an older picture of Bryn with Ember, another of Bryn with a pudgy little boy, a silver Tralla horse, a few others with folks I didn’t recognize—but it was the ones of her family that gave me pause.

Bryn smiling brightly with her mother, Runa—blond, blue-eyed, a softer, older version of Bryn—and her father, Iver—black hair, dark eyes, olive skin, a quiet intellectual with little in common with the athletic, strong-willed Bryn. But no matter their obvious similarities—or lack thereof—one thing was abundantly clear as I looked at their picture with three smiling faces, their arms around each other: that they cared about each other.

From the office, I heard the apartment door open, and Bryn asking Ridley if I was there.

“Hi, Bryn,” I said as I came out.