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You’re a person of discernment.”
    Randolf blushes.
    I look around quickly. But the others don’t seem to notice. How is it that no one realizes Randolf doesn’tbehave like men do? And what about how small Randolf is? Size alone should make them suspicious. Even Thorsten, who’s barely fourteen, towers over Randolf. And Randolf doesn’t have a hint of a beard. And Randolf wears that huge cloak—even on the warmest days. They should figure out Randolf’s hiding something under that cloak. They shouldn’t just let Randolf sit there with Øg, my Øg, on that lap. I glare at Randolf.
    Randolf looks at me, then quickly down. My eyes told her she’s acting girly.
    I look away. Randolf is right. If they figure out she is a woman, they might figure out Øg is her baby. Then not only is Randolf’s secret out—with whatever consequences that carries—but no one will think Øg is the terror born of the elf, which is what he and I are supposed to be, which is why we weren’t thrown out at the very start. No one feeds an extra mouth for nothing; they feed us because they fear what would happen if they didn’t.
    But I’m growing bigger. Somehow I didn’t grow all spring or summer. This autumn, though, I’ve started to. My head comes up to the brown blotch on my favorite cow’s horn now. It isn’t a lot—she’s a short cow—but it’s something. Pretty soon they’ll have to notice. And Øg, well, that egg of a baby has turned into the sweetest little giggler anyone ever knew. It’s ridiculous that his name means “terror” in Norse.
    We’re in danger—Randolf and Øg and me.
    Gunhild touches me on the shoulder. “Alfhild,” she says softly. “Didn’t you hear me?” She uses my new name. Thorkild came home today and told everyone I was to be called Alfhild from now on.
    Gunhild’s holding the silver flask out toward me. Clearly it’s been going around the room. And everyone whose hands it has already passed through is now talking about how different they feel—stronger, wiser. The dragon’s blood has an instantaneous effect.
    Dragons here are different from dragons back in Eire. Norse dragons are huge serpents, and instead of protecting the world, they cause horrendous problems. But their blood is good. I remember a story about a man named Sigurd who kills a dragon named Fafnir and saves his blood in a trench. Then he bathes in it—and that makes him invulnerable, except for one of his shoulders, where a leaf stuck, so the dragon’s blood didn’t touch it—a big mistake later, of course. Anyway, Sigurd drinks the blood, and that makes him able to understand the language of birds. And he roasts and eats the dragon heart, and that makes him able to see the future.
    Maybe dragon blood doesn’t do the same thing to everyone. But no matter what, it makes you better than you were. I look at Beorn. Where did this man find a dragon? How did he dare to confront it? But no one elseasks, so I hold my tongue. It doesn’t matter anyway. All that matters is the power of the blood. I take the flask and bring it to my lips, but Gunhild stays my hand. “Just dip in a finger and lick it, like everyone else.”
    I do. Then I pass the flask along. The blood is thick. It coats my fingertip. I lick half of it, then I walk over to Randolf and Øg and put my finger in Øg’s mouth. Obediently he sucks it clean. I knew he would; Øg sucks anything clean.
    Am I different now? Did the dragon blood work? I hug myself and rub my arms.
    The flask finally returns to Beorn, and he closes it and puts it away. “Now you’re all dragon-strong, so listen close to my dragon tale.” And he’s practically singing now, telling the story of a young and brave king named Frotho. “Frotho needed money to pay for his country’s battles—for it costs a