How to Survive a Norwegian Winter (A Change of Heart Novella)

Aurora

"Auntie Marina!" Harald trumpeted gleefully as soon as he caught sight of me hovering in the dining room doorway, biting my lip while I considered the empty chair next to Thoren. For all that Signy had (rather unenthusiastically) ratified my relationship with her son, there was still no escaping the disaster I'd wrought this afternoon, and I wasn't positive I could endure an entire evening of tacit reproach. Luckily, most of the adults were engrossed in an animated discussion of Yule traditions while Karina dashed about corralling her offspring, and so I could dither at my leisure.

At least, I could until the little herald's shout sliced through all conversation, and I experienced the unique pleasure of getting appraised by Karina like a cabbage in the market. With as much poise as I could muster, I sailed into the dining room like the "demigod Secunda, daughter of Memory, and sister of the Muses" that I was. Signy, presiding at the head of the table, accorded me the faintest approving nod.

Ever the gentleman, Thoren rose immediately to pull out my chair. "New dress?" he asked curiously once we were seated, reaching over to rub the fabric of my sleeve.

"Mmm, yes," I said, a little self-consciously. "Your mother was kind enough to lend me warmer clothing."

As satisfied as if she'd personally directed a team of seamstresses to design a couture gown just for me, Karina informed Signy, "There! See, Mother, I told you Helga's spare dress would fit just fine."

Barely raising her head from a book half-hidden under the table, Helga glanced at me, registered my attire, deemed worldly concerns to be trifling next to great literature, and immediately returned to her reading.

My guide to local weather conditions, on the other hand, looked utterly chagrined at his lapse. "I'm sorry, Marina," Thoren apologized remorsefully. "I've been too preoccupied lately." (Yes. Yes, he had. With ancient love letters, no less.) "I should have noticed that all your clothing was too thin." In a move that suggested someone had consulted the Ars Amatoria, he trailed his fingertips down my arm until he found my hand under the table and squeezed it tightly.

"It's okay," I assured him, leaning my head against his shoulder. "I'm warm now."

He smiled down at me, toying with my fingers, until Zoe cleared her throat very pointedly from two seats down and jerked her head at the children. Poor Birgit looked ready to projectile-vomit stomach bile, but Helga had actually torn her attention from her book and was gazing at us dreamily. When she noticed us staring right back, she immediately ducked her head.

"Helga," her mother pleaded, lunging for Alf right before he toppled off his chair, "how many times do I need to tell you not to read at the table? Meals are a time for family. Especially during Yule."

"But I'm almost done reading this poem!" Helga protested. "It's so beautiful — "

"Ewwww!" shouted Harald, precocious literary critic.

"Harald, please. Helga, I'm not going to repeat myself. Put the book away right this minute, or I swear to Odin, I will throw it in the fireplace!" ("No!" shrieked Cly inside my head. "No no no! That's sacrilege! Marina, stop her!")

"Fine," the twelve-year-old sighed, echoing her mother's weary tone. Shutting the book as wistfully as Ynez had bidden farewell to Tel, Helga laid it tenderly on a bench beside the divine spear.

Once the pouting girl was back in her seat, her grandmother scanned the table one final time, deemed everyone sufficiently present in body, mind, and spirit, and directed one of the maids, "Tell Cook we're ready now."

Like Dionysian cultists, a procession of servants flooded forth to proffer massive wooden tankards. At the sight of the frothy, golden ale, Cly (who normally considered bodily needs such as nutrition to be a dangerous distraction from scholarly contemplation) perked up and darted to a new bookcase in her library. Yanking out a freshly-written tome, she recited, "After the Christianization of the northern lands, the Scandinavians blended pagan and Christian elements in their Yuletide celebrations." Jabbing a finger at my tankard, she harangued, "To this day, a key component (required by law, no less) involves drinking Yule ale to toast one's kinfolk and friends — plus one's personal choice of the Æsir or Christ and Mary."