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Silla Nordvig believed in the little signs the old gods left for mortals—red skies to foretell surprise, the flíta to usher in change, and the black hawk as a herald of death. Above all else, she knew that bad fortune came in threes, so it should not have come as a surprise when those wretched bells started ringing. She jumped in fright all the same.
Think hearthfire thoughts, she imagined her mother saying. The kind of thoughts that warm you through. Baby seals. Sneezing. The scent of books.
