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tried to avoid it. Looks of condemnation wherever she went. Not that anyone said anything.
    Thankfully she had little time to wallow in angst. There was much to be done, as the servants had taken the utmost advantage of a prior lack of discipline. She soon came to understand that it did not serve her well to complain to the bishop about them, for he used the rod unsparingly, and this fortified any opposition against him. The seeds of that opposition had first been sown when he drove away the officialis in spiritualibus , the vicar Father Jon Palsson, who was renowned for his poetry written to glorify the Holy Mary. Jon was generally popular and now held a post at Grenjadarstadur in Thingeyjarsysla district.
    Thus Ragna tried to tread a fine line; she rewarded those who were obedient and cut the food rations of the rebellious, told on no one and spoke ill of no one, sewed in the weaving hall with the women, and even took it upon herself to perform the household duties, time permitting. The priests and deacons were her superiors, the servants her inferiors. Here, as elsewhere, she stood alone.
    Michael was contented, at least he suggested as much when she asked, and the rector, Father Kari, praised his aptitude for learning. For the first time ever they slept in separate quarters, she in a chamber separated with panels from the women’s hall, he with the other schoolboys. Sometimes they did not see each other for days, save for briefly during morning mass.
    Thorkell was one of the teachers, along with other, more learned priests on the site. He lectured the schoolboys on the various things he had learned during his studies abroad. Ragna found this both strange and ironic. She would never have imagined that it would come to this—that he, of all people, would end up instructing her son. It felt as if his gaze was permanently fixed on her when she served at the bishop’s high table, and it made her uncomfortable. She tried looking away until she ran out of patience and gave him a sharp look back, only to become flustered once more, for he had a tendency then to send her a familiar smile, like an old friend who knew her better than she knew herself. For whatever reason, she felt his magnetic pull and was drawn to him like a moth to a flame; she felt the heat on her wings and knew that, sooner rather than later, something would happen.
    No words passed between them until one day when he sent instructions for her to speak to him in the great hall where he kept the bishop’s books. That same morning the servant girl Brynhildur had been brought in, who had fled from service earlier that fall to the home of her parents. The girl had refused to speak to a soul, but when Ragna confronted her in private, she revealed through gritted teeth that Thorlakur the butler had his hands on her constantly, and when she refused do his bidding, he had violated her, and she wished him dead and herself, too, if she was forced to remain at Holar. Ragna hardly knew what to say; she did not want to believe it, although she knew the butler to be capable of many transgressions. Still, she told Brynhildur that she would support her insofar as she could.
    Brynhildur shook her head despondently, despite Ragna’s pledge of support. “You don’t know how it is. It’s like you’re not a person because you own nothing. Not even yourself,” she said bitterly.
    Although it would come to mind later, Ragna made no mention of this response when an hour later she recounted the girl’s predicament to Thorkell, standing next to his writing desk in the great hall.
    He surprised her with his coldness. “Brynhildur’s accusations are irrelevant to this case,” he said, “even though they are probably true. In any case, the charges against the butler cannot be proved. The important thing is to reiterate to the servants that desertion will not be tolerated, especially now, when there is a perpetual shortage of domestics.”
    “But why not ask other servants