“Fine,” Alf sulked.
The stranger pushed Alf back in his stool and returned to his spot by the fireplace.
Alf shivered, and Small Tim shrugged. “That’s what you get,” the bear-man said to Alf.
Peder blinked as he stared at the stranger. “Was that a mage?” he asked.
Otto rolled his eyes. “No, Peder. Go back to your drink,” he said.
“My honey wine!” Peder said, gleefully reaching for his bottle.
“Yes, your honey wine. Next time I see Gemma, I will congratulate her,” Otto said.
“Hear, hear,” Big Tim said, raising his pint.
No one thought any further of Peder’s loose mouth. No one except for Alf, who sniveled and sulked over his mug.
“Gemma!”
Gemma glanced behind her before she darted up an alleyway, carefully holding her basket above her head. She had just enough time to crouch behind a stack of wooden crates before two women—Mrs. Hagen and her neighbor, Mrs. Nystrom—peered down the alleyway, looking like vultures with their hooked noses and bobbing heads.
“Gemma! Where did that girl go?” Mrs. Hagen said.
“Perhaps you didn’t see her after all?
“I did so! She so resembles a broomstick, you can pick her out of a village gathering with ease.”
Behind the crates, Gemma heaved her eyes to the sky.
“That pert girl puts on airs far above her. She thinks she’s a seamstress!” Mrs. Hagen sniffed.
“She’s making good money. My husband is friends with Lars Skeilen, and he said Big Tim said Peder the Miller used a gold coin at the Sno Hauk. He claimed Lady Linnea gave it to Gemma for her services,” Mrs. Nystrom said.
“Making money has nothing to do with skill,” Mrs. Hagen snapped. “Lord and Lady Lovland likely see her more as a companion for sweet Lady Linnea.”
“Maybe. You cannot tell me our Gemma made that beautiful hunter green riding habit Lady Linnea was out in not two weeks ago.”
She had, actually. Gemma considered standing up and telling the old harpies so, but it would be a waste of breath; she had endured criticism from all of Ostfold since she first got her seamstress position. So instead, Gemma held in an aggravated sigh and rested her head against the crate.
Go away! Go away! Go away! She thought.
“The scoundrel girl, claiming credit for something that isn’t her work,” Mrs. Hagen said, as if she could hear Gemma’s thoughts.
“What do you expect with a father like Peder?” Mrs. Nystrom asked.
Mrs. Hagen grunted. “I suppose you are right. Hm, is that Malfrid over there?”
“It is. She must be out shopping. I wonder what for…”
“Let’s find out,” Mrs. Hagen suggested.
The older women wandered away from the alley.
Gemma waited for a few extra seconds before she popped upright. “Old goats,” she said, brushing off her skirts with one hand. She kept her basket secure and pressed against her stomach. The basket was covered with worn linen—an old tablecloth ripped up for rags. Gemma pulled the linen snug before she wound her way farther into Ostfold, taking back alleyways to avoid the more quarrelsome residents.
Gemma kept walking, leaving the shopping districts for a residential area that housed most of the farmers, animal herders, and many of the servants employed by the King. In the center of the quiet street was a rustic little house. It was short and squat and had four small fir trees growing on the grass roof—which was normally a bright shade of green but was currently brown with fall.
A sleepy-eyed goat sat on the top of the roof and chewed its cud. Gemma shielded her eyes and called up to the fawn-colored goat, “Are you enjoying the view?”
The goat baaed.
Smoke puffed from the chimney like little clouds, and the shutters were painted a delightful shade of pink.
This was Grandmother Guri’s house.
Gemma knocked on the door. “It’s Gemma,” she called, brushing the nose of the intricately carved reindeer that was posed to prance across the door. The reindeer’s nose was smooth and shiny from hundreds of fingers touching it.
“Gemma, my girl! I thought I was about due for a visit. Come in!” a voice inside the house croaked.
Gemma pushed the door open and stepped into the Grandmother Guri’s home. The familiar scent of singed wood, goat milk soap, bacon, and kanelgifler—cinnamon rolls—wafted through the air.
Grandmother Guri was stirring a pot. She, like her house, was short and squat. Her long white hair was braided in a halo around her head, and her skin was tan and leathery. She had sharp eyes the color of grey pebbles right after they’re pulled from a riverbed, and the softest hands and the gentlest touch.
“How are you, Grandmother?” Gemma asked as she set her basket on a table and removed her shawl from her shoulders.
