“For a few days?” Elof tilted his head. “Did anything precede the earworm’s implantation?”

“It started in a lysa,” I said.

He looked to Dagny and asked her, “Is that the one you helped Pan with?”

“Yes, and I already went over it with Ulla, and I didn’t notice anything strange with the lysa,” Dagny said, and picked up the needle. “You’re going to feel a pinch.”

I quickly looked at Bryn, locking onto her blue eyes, and I recited the translation that had been stuck in my head.

the linden flower watched the sun

the bird of gold soared over the meadow

and in the summer morning light

the two fell in love

the flower stretched toward the sky

and the birds sang her songs all day

but they never last

for even the greenest summer

withers in the longest night

when the sky turned dark

the bird had gone and the flower saw

she wept all through the night

until her tears became a lake

and the flower drowned awaiting the bird’s return

too late the bird came back

he plucked the feathers from his breast

until he bled on the meadows

linden flowers bloomed anew

only after the bird bled dry

over their bodies are the flowers and birds

singing his mourning song

the bird and the flower may fall in love

but they will never share a nest

the morning flower and the summer bird

Halfway through my recitation, I felt the needle pierce my skin, and the extra pressure of the effort Dagny had to use to get it through my thicker tissue. But I just inhaled sharply and kept on talking.

“That’s not particularly catchy,” Elof commented when I’d finished.

“It sounds better in the original language,” I said.

“All done,” Dagny announced, and I made the mistake of looking just as she was pulling the needle out.

I swayed to the side. “Oh, jakla.”

Bryn immediately grabbed my shoulder to steady me. “Easy.”

“I’m okay.” I blinked a few times and took another deep breath. “I’m okay,” I repeated once Dagny had wrapped gauze around my arm, and I slowly got to my feet.

Elof brought me a glass of water, and Dagny finished labeling my samples—vials of my currant-red blood. He noticed me looking, so he put his hand on my arm, steering me away so I wouldn’t make myself sick.

“What is the original language?” Elof asked.

“What?” I asked, then shook my head. “Oh, the song. I’m not sure. It sounds like something Old Germanic, like a rough Scandinavian dialect, but more guttural. And it has the harder consonants that remind me of Inuit or Sami.”

“Interesting.” He leaned back against the short island, resting his elbows on the counter. “Could you sing me a bit? In the original language?”