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TWIGS SNAPPED UNDER HINKLE'S BARE FEET as she hurried deeper into the woods. She felt uneasy, like she was being followed, and she looked again over her shoulder to be sure the baronet’s men weren’t closing in behind her. Sunlight pierced the forest with golden rays. Trees creaked softly in the coastal breeze. There was no one there.

It was absurd to think they would follow her so far into the wild. But then her paranoia was not without cause. Dark bruises still coloured her back and arms from the last time she snuck out of the village.

“It’s for your own good!” the constable had said as she yelped under the crack of his cane. He had caught her himself as she tried to sneak back through the gate, and had little choice but to drag her by the arm to the baronet’s manor. The baronet couldn’t have been more pleased. He had her brought into his dining hall so he could eat while he watched the constable and two of his men give her the caning of her life.

If they caught her again, they’d do worse.

The thralls have already sheared half the sheep in my grandfather’s flock, and I’m supposed to be spinning the wool into yarn for my mother. I should be proud to come from such a wealthy family with so much wool to spin. It’s noble work, my mother says, the honour of women everywhere. Even the goddess Frigg spins yarn in Asgard.

I hate spinning yarn.

I can deal with a fleece or two, but my father said that last night the thralls dropped off two whole sacks. Two whole sacks! I’ll be spinning yarn for days. Loki! One hour of rolling wool onto a spindle and I’m ready to throw myself into the fjord.

Of course, my parents would just send my spinning tools along with me in the funeral boat so I could keep spinning in Valhalla …

Gods!

I don’t see why the thralls can’t do it. They’re used to endless, mind-numbing work. I’d rather pick rocks out of a field. I’d rather muck out the latrine. I’d rather slip head-first into the latrine than spin yarn.