“Auður,” called Aud, then she went to the stranger’s side, murmuring something. The firelight fell upon her face, revealing a young woman in her middle twenties, her mouth slack, her eyes darting ceaselessly without appearing to see. She gripped Aud’s arm tightly, and when Aud directed her to a chair, she sat in a boneless slump.

Curious, I drifted to the woman’s side. “Is she well?”

Aud stiffened. “As well as can be expected.”

Ulfar set a bowl of stew before the girl. Auður did not look at it, or him.

“Eat,” Aud said in Ljoslander. Auður picked up her spoon and mechanically filled her mouth, chewed, and swallowed.

“Drink,” Aud said. Auður drank.

I watched them with growing confusion. There was something both uncanny and abhorrent about the way in which Auður responded to Aud’s instructions, like a puppet on strings. Aud saw me watching, and her face darkened.

“I would ask that you refrain from including my niece in your book,” she said.

I understood, and gave a slight nod. “Of course.”

I know of several species of Folk who are in the habit of abducting mortals for the thrill of breaking them. In truth, it is something most of the courtly fae are given to on occasion. I once met a Manx man whose daughter had taken her own life after a year and a day spent in some horrific faerie kingdom so lovely that its beauty became as addictive as opiates. Others have endured torments and returned so changed their families barely recognize them. But in Auður’s manner and expression, its scrubbed-clean quality, I found something I’d never encountered before. And for all my expertise, it sent a shiver of foreboding through me, a sense that perhaps, for the first time in my career, I was out of my depth.

“Does she live alone?” I enquired.

“She lives with her parents, as she always has.”

I nodded. “May I call upon her?”

“You are a guest here, and are welcome anywhere,” her aunt said, lightly and automatically, but there was a brittleness in her smile that even I could recognize, and so I retreated to the fireside. Auður continued to eat and drink only when instructed to, and when the meal was complete, she sat with her head slumped and her hair in her face until her aunt took her home.

“Is she always like that?” I said.

Thora gave me a brief, sharp look, then nodded. “That child would carve out her own heart if someone ordered her to.”

There was a cold sweat upon my brow. “What did they do to her?”

“What did they do?” Thora repeated. “Did you not see? She’s hollow. There’s less substance there than the shadow of a ghost. But at least she returned.”

The words had an emphasis that made me swallow. “And how many others did not?”

Thora did not look at me. “Your dinner is growing cold,” she said, and there was something beneath the pleasantness in her voice that I did not dare challenge.

When Shadow and I returned to the cottage, we found the embers still hot in the woodstove, a fact that filled me with an ill-fated pride. I decided I would read for a time at the fireside, if only to put Auður from my mind, for she had unsettled me more than I cared to admit. Reaching into the wood box brought me swiftly down to earth, though, for I found only two logs remaining.

I chewed my lip, shivering lightly. I recalled Krystjan’s reference to the woodshed, and wished, abruptly, that I had taken Finn’s advice and “settled in” instead of spending the day charging hither and thither about the countryside. There are times when my scholarly enthusiasm gets the better of me, but I have never had cause to regret this so deeply before.

Well, there was nothing for it. I lit the lantern and thrust myself back out into the snow. Fortunately, the woodshed was easily located, tucked beneath the eaves. My heart sank, however, when I looked within. The wood had not been cut into logs, but piled up in huge chunks that would never fit into my humble stove.

I was shivering in earnest now. Shadow, perfectly comfortable in his bearish coat, grew anxious at my distress. Correctly intuiting the woodshed as its source, he proceeded to attack the door.

“Stop that, my love,” I admonished. I hefted what appeared to be a whole segment of trunk and grimly set to work. I took up the axe set atop the woodpile and placed the trunk upon a stump. Then I swung.

The first time, I missed. The second too. The third, I buried the axe in the wood, where it stuck fast and would not be dislodged.

I wrenched on it. I stuck a foot against the stump and wrenched again. And though I am not usually the sort for cursing, I’ve no doubt I withered a few weeds with the stream of filth that fell from my lips.

Eventually, weary and cold and aching in my shoulder from the reverberation of the axe, I gave up. The axe I left in the shed stuck deep into the wood, projecting what I imagined was a kind of sadistic triumph. I went into the cold cottage, added the remaining logs to the fire, and draped all the blankets I could find over the bed. I did not wish to finish the day’s entry, but habit lent me the necessary fortitude. Now to sleep.

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I awoke warm enough this morning, but only because I was thoroughly swaddled in my blankets, Shadow snoring against me. But the moment I poked my foot free, I yanked it back. The cold had claws.

I could not ignore the knocking, though, which commenced predictably at half seven. I forced myself from bed but wrapped the blankets around me, dignity be damned, and admitted Finn to the cottage.

He cast a glance at the stove, winced, but made no comment. He set my breakfast upon the table.

“What is this?” I said in disbelief.

The loaf of bread was a blackened husk. There was no goose egg, nor egg of any sort, and no butter, but there was a little bowl of something gelatinous and greyish-green.

“Ðangssaus,” Finn said. “My father thought you might enjoy it. It’s a kind of—” He searched for words. “Relish? Made from seaweed. It’s for toast.”

“This certainly qualifies.”

His face fell. “I’m sorry, Professor. My father arranged the breakfast this morning. And somehow, without my noticing, the bread was knocked into the fire.”

I sat down heavily. “Well, at least the tea is hot.”

He smiled. “I made sure of it.”

I set my head in my hand, which was pounding from the wine. “Might I enquire what I did to displease your father so?”

“It’s not so much my father who is displeased. It’s Aud.” He added quickly, “My father is old-fashioned. He does not respond well to an insult to his goði.”

“What? I said nothing to offend her.” I reviewed the events of the previous evening. “Clearly there has been a misunderstanding.”

Finn looked into the wood box. “Let me assist you with this, at least.”

“That’s quite all right.” A hard, cold anger was forming in my stomach. “I was just about to get to it myself.”

He raised his eyebrows and made no comment. Seconds after his departure, I heard the sound of an axe splitting wood in the yard.

I admit that I am disheartened by this news. My research requires the villagers’ assistance—I rely as much on local lore as the evidence gathered with my own eyes and instruments in forming an accurate picture of the Folk. That I have already managed to offend the headwoman of Hrafnsvik does not bode well.

I think I can guess the source of Aud’s anger—clearly, she is protective of her niece, and worried that I would publicize her affliction and make a spectacle out of her. I am determined to meet with her at the tavern today to plead my case.