Sigrid was pale against the pillows. Ingrid patted the sweat from her face while the midwife carted away bloody rags and sheets. This one was the daughter of the last midwife they’d consulted. She’d arrived, saying her mother was ill and couldn’t make it, took one look at Sigrid, and explained she was much further along than previously thought, but still early. Ingrid watched her harry Helgi and Rionan to gather supplies and take Erik to her house to be looked after by her daughter. Once the birth was finished, she washed the child and bundled her up.

As the midwife ran the bedding to the stream, Ingrid could hear Helgi accost her outside the doorway. Rionan’s voice joined his after a few moments. Ingrid listened to the midwife soothe them, then dunked the rag in cold water and continued caring for her sister. Sigrid’s bloodless lips parted with a trembling exhale.

“Where is she,” she asked. Ingrid winced and gazed at the infant swaddled within the blankets. The baby was fussing, but her cries didn’t come. Only weak gasps left the tiny mouth.

She was so small and red. Her face contorted and eyes squeezed shut. Ingrid picked her up, pretending the lightness of the bundle wasn’t concerning. Erik had been so much larger. She hoped he would one day know how lucky he was that his mother survived the birth of his sister. She placed the baby on Sigrid’s chest and waited. Sigrid touched a finger to the infant’s face, experiencing the soft skin, and the delicate nose, and brow. The baby coughed and fussed, waving an arm at her mother.

“Little Embla,” Sigrid whispered. “My little elm.”

“Don’t curse her this early in life,” Ingrid warned. “The underworld hasn’t taken her yet.”

Sigrid shook her head. “No, it let her go when it could have kept her.” She looked at Ingrid with a watery gaze. “I sensed it. For a moment, she slipped away from me. I knew I’d never hear her cry.” A tear slipped out. “She came back, though. She came back to me.” Another tear spilled, then another, until Sigrid sobbed over the too-small baby in her arms. The infant wriggled and started whimpering in her grip. The breathy squeaks grew louder. Little Embla began to cry angrily, defying the underworld that tried to take her and shrieking her displeasure at the world outside her mother’s womb.

“A fierce girl,” Ingrid mused between the squalls. “Should we show her to her father?”

She opened the door and let Helgi inside. His pale face brightened at the sight of his wife, and he plowed past Ingrid. He stumbled and tripped but didn’t slow down, crawling to the bedside to place dozens of kisses on Sigrid’s face while crying like his daughter.

Ingrid left, closing the door. The labor had been long. When she looked, the moon was high up. Somewhere to her left, Rionan scrambled up from the bench and approached.

“Is the bairn well?” she asked. Ingrid nodded, and collapsed. Rionan cried out as she fell. Relief swept through her like a storm, stealing the strength from her limbs and leaving her legs weak. She slumped forward and grasped at the grass beneath her hands as the shaking started. Small trembles vibrated out from the depths of her stomach and traveled through her shoulders.

A pair of small hands smoothed her back. They rubbed across her shirt, the calluses catching on the fabric repeatedly, until the shivers faded.

“They’re alright,” Rionan whispered in her ear, over and over until she felt like she could breathe again.

“They are.” Ingrid clawed at her shoulder until Rionan’s fingers slipped into hers. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Always.” Rionan held her until the midwife returned and scolded them for staying outside when the new mother needed attending.

“The priests are talking about witches,” Rionan said glumly on their way home from mass. They filled their cart with jars of goat and cow’s milk that clinked as the mule plodded on. In the week since Embla had arrived, Sigrid hadn’t left the bed. The midwife told them the only reason she’d lived through the premature birth was by the grace of God. Embla nursed, but it was a battle, and Sigrid was often too tired to fight.

“Aye,” Ingrid agreed. “Folks in town said the same.”

“It’s got something to do with Gunnar,” Rionan spat. “I know it does.” She crossed her arms and pouted. Ingrid smiled at the childish display and patted her on the arm.

“It’s alright, love.” The reins snapped as she flicked at the mule. “It’s nothing to do with us.” Honestly, she was aware Gunnar was cunning. Something about him was off-putting and unsettling, like an eel worming into the perfect position to strike. She got the same feeling from his father. She suspected he was planning something, but wasn’t sure yet.

“A few girls have been asked questions,” Rionan continued. “A priest pulled Siobhan aside and asked her about Margaret’s poultices.”

“What did she say?”

“The truth.” Rionan clicked her tongue. “That half the town uses Margaret O’Deel’s poultices, including the bishop. And that there was no witchcraft in any of it.” She nodded as if to punctuate the statement.

Ingrid chuckled. “That’s indeed true.”

“I can’t believe the bishop would allow them to act like that,” Rionan mused. “He’s been generous and kind, even to us.”

Ingrid agreed. The bishop was a kind man, despite being stern. He treated everyone fairly, no matter if they attended church or not. Compared to other Christians she met on her travels, he was better. He was the only man of the cloth she’d come to respect whole-heartedly, and the first to congratulate Rionan when Ingrid released her from her thrall status. She could only imagine the priests were acting without his authority.

We’ll keep our heads down for the time being,” she decided. “Don’t give them an excuse to come knock on our door.” Rionan wriggled and muttered under her breath but nodded to show she agreed.

It worked for a time. They kept to their own. Rionan took on less work, and Ingrid stayed home as often as possible to help care for Sigrid. She still carted Rionan to church every Sunday and chatted with the non-Christian locals during mass. More stories filtered through their talks over games or a pipe. More women were being questioned and some were harassed by priests or churchgoers. Some men were interrogated for different offenses. Each priest got more aggressive and demanded mass attendance and more offerings to the church to help defeat the demons vying for men’s immortal souls.

Rionan left mass one Sunday, carrying a storm cloud over her head, and plopped into the cart.

“Mary was called forward during mass and accused of adultery,” she said without being prompted. Ingrid frowned and squinted at the dark-robed men milling around the front of the church. That one of them would accuse sweet Mary of adultery. It was absurd.

“She just got married,” she muttered. “Anyone can tell she’s almost as devoted to her husband as to God.”

Rionan nodded. “The bishop stopped it, but her husband tried to hit Father Kirk for accusing her.”

“What happened after?” She’d yet to see Mary or her husband emerge from the building.

“They have to pay a fine to the church.” Rionan sighed and slumped forward. “The bishop tried to talk everyone out of it, but Gunnar said it was only right since he attacked a man of God.”

“Ach,” Ingrid huffed and spat on the ground beside the cart. “This is what he’s playing at then.”

“What do you mean?” Rionan looked up at her. Her head was tilted to the side, and her eyes were wide.

“I’ve seen Ragnar pull this stunt before,” Ingrid explained. “He plays the pious man dedicated to helping someone: a king, a merchant, it doesn’t matter. He flatters, and plays with them until they eat out of his hands. Next thing they know, they’re indebted to him and forced to work for him for years or sell their sons to his service. It’s part of why he’s called the Weasel.”

As soon as she saw Mary and her husband leave the church, looking exhausted, Ingrid decided they’d stayed long enough. With a flick of the reins, they lurched down the road. Rionan was silent as she processed the new information.

Once away from town, she asked, “Is that what happened to you?” Ingrid shook her head. Her work for Ragnar was sporadic and restricted to one task at a time under clear conditions. Her first captain had warned her early on to accept nothing less.

“I never trust the flattery of men,” she said and turned toward their house.