**
"And a winter Henrik is making me live through before I treat either point like a door." I replied.
"Sensible." He turned his face toward me. "Temporary, you said."
"Temporary." I concurred.
He smiled enough that I felt it more than saw it in the low lamp.
Outside, Norddal made its night sounds—the river, a dog, Freja's voice once in the yard telling someone the lid went back on the pot or she would know who to blame.
I stretched out beside him and let the day settle: paste, green herbals, a hooked hand, a coastal woman who touched a stone for luck without knowing the ledger had already drawn it three times in brown ink.
---
In the morning Freja claimed me for market weights before Henrik could claim me for shelves.
Herman Eriksen was there with roots. Ella Isaksen was there with her dark syrup and a story about a birth that had gone long and ended well.
