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ever.
    I press my fists against my cheeks and sit back on my heels and try not to think about Nuada. It only makes mesad. And angry. They should have come for me by now. But I won’t think about that. Tonight is a celebration, because Beorn’s visit is a treat.
    I look at him now and wonder what it’s like to travel so much. I bet Beorn doesn’t have a home. Not really. Housing a skald would be like taming a wild bird; it makes no sense. When he gets on that boat and heads north for winter, I bet he doesn’t nestle in a house with ordinary people. I bet he does something extraordinary. Maybe he wanders with the bears till spring comes. Maybe he turns into a bear himself.
    I imagine him all white with blood smeared across his face fur from eating a human. My stomach turns.
    â€œWho wants to drink blood?” says Beorn.
    I flinch. It’s as though he’s heard my thoughts.
    Beorn takes a flask from a pouch that hangs off his belt. He holds it up so the firelight flickers on it. The silver is as shiny as the host bowl for communion in our church back in Eire.
    Ã˜g makes an appreciative gurgle and reaches both hands toward the flask. Everyone laughs. I wince. I want to snatch Øg from Randolf’s lap. He should be sitting with me. I’m the one who saved his life, after all. It was Randolf who meant to throw him to the pigs. Øg practically lived in my arms for months, except when Gunhildnursed him or he napped. But today, because I was off getting the mussels with Thorkild, Randolf took over his care. Randolf is a thief.
    â€œThis feast was good enough for a god,” says Beorn, “so . . .”
    â€œThat’s because you’re a god,” interrupts Gunhild. Little Gudrun on her lap nods happily at her mother’s words.
    â€œTrue. You look like Ægir himself,” says Thorsten.
    I know about Ægir. He’s a sea giant or a god or something important like that. But in our nightly stories, he’s the one who gives the parties, not the one the parties are thrown for.
    â€œI’m no Ægir.” Beorn smiles ruefully. “I have no goddess wife, no nine maiden daughters, alas. My family consists of my dog. And I’m grateful for the luck that brought him to me.” He jerks his chin toward the dog Vigi, curled near a post. “But I have this flask of blood, and it’s a way to repay you for such a fabulous feast.” He waves that silver flask around. “If you drink blood, you become strong. As strong as . . .” Beorn raises his eyebrows and looks around.
    â€œA troll,” says Åse. “As strong as a troll.”
    Beorn smiles in a superior way. “Exactly. Strong as trolls, with their tusks and claws and lizard tails.” He moves his hands as he talks, making his pointer fingers curve out and down from his mouth, so I figure out tusks are longteeth. And I already knew trolls were special giants, but now I know what they look like. “But this . . .” Beorn taps the side of the flask. “This is not ordinary blood. This blood does much more than what ordinary blood does. Can you guess what kind of blood it is?”
    â€œBear.” It’s Thorkild. I bet he’s right.
    â€œWrong.” Beorn looks around. “Any other guesses?”
    â€œWolf.”
    â€œReindeer.”
    â€œWalrus.”
    More guesses are coming out of everyone’s mouth and I don’t know half the animals they’re naming—they can’t be animals from around here, because I’ve learned the name of every animal I’ve seen so far. But it doesn’t matter, because Beorn keeps shaking his head no.
    â€œDragon,” shouts Randolf.
    Beorn jumps around and stabs his finger at her. “Right!”
    Randolf smiles at Beorn in delight.
    Beorn smiles too. “Clearly you’re a person who understands we may meet a dragon at any turn, in any cave, under any wave.