Today, a short extract. The photo is what we would call a twitten, in summer. The extract is a cold, northern spring, with snow on the ground:
Bera collected some loaves from the baker and her spirits lifted when he touched his forelock to her. Respect. She whistled on the way home. Dellingr was still in the world and there was time to prepare before Thorvald returned.
She turned into the last twitten and saw blood.
It did not shift her mood at first: it could have come from a chicken killed for the pot. She marvelled at the vivid red on the grey planks of the walkway until its saturation began to sear her brain. When she shut her eyes the splashes were still there, yellow against purple. The skern had gone before giving his warning. Was this it?
Bera hurried on. The drips kept with her, punctuating her way. She began to panic. She slipped and tripped, terrified they were all dead. Sigrid! The shame of failing to protect them was too dreadful to think about.
Outside the door was a spray of scarlet, as if a vein had been opened right there.
She fumbled with the thick outer latch but then it was open and she burst in, tripping on the sill. Very bad luck. She stumbled through the dark passage and could not find the inner latch. The spirits jeered.
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