His stomach was sorrier than an overused barrel. Warped and useless. The ache in his gut throbbing, Thor opened his eyes. Where was he? His hand bumped a pillow. In bed, then. The inside of a working still would have been cooler than his throat. He swallowed but it did nothing for the burn. He looked over to see a clean pail, and though his belly was about to heave again, he just needed to be outside. Now.
Shifting to sit, he saw Haakon in the dim light. Slumbering with his chest to the bed, the runt was draped over the mattress nigh to unconscious. Moonlight seeped through the window as strangely angled slits. Why were the windows covered? It was a struggle to stand, but after he did, Thor crossed to the door.
His feet felt bare, but he didn’t look down. If he moved his head that far, he’d regret it. He wobbled, catching himself against the doorjamb with a wince. Though the vise on his skull couldn’t be real, he ran a hand there to make sure.
He didn’t know how he got down the stairs and through the house, but it was the sheer rolling in his stomach that pushed him toward the yard. He stumbled down the porch steps and fell to his knees in the dark. He’d hoped to get farther, but this would have to do. As his stomach heaved, all he could think about was water and how he was never going to drink the stuff ever again. Finished, Thor swiped his sleeve over his mouth. Not ready to stand, he pushed himself back to sit on the bottom step.
Two moons hovered in the sky, neither holding still.
More nausea rising, Thor stumbled into the yard, gripped his thighs, and bent as his stomach fought to scrape itself clean. Someone was poisoning him with water, that’s what it was. A proper drink would set this to rights. Seeing his shop in the dim light, he made it that way and sank against the door, panting.
He reached for the handle. It wouldn’t turn. A few choice words came to mind as he recalled that he’d locked it himself. Thor let his hand slip from the knob, and it bumped along the boards. The wooden barricade would keep the cidery barred shut, even if he managed to find the key. But he wouldn’t find the key because for some stupid reason he’d slipped it out of reach beneath the door. When had he done that? Bending, Thor squinted to see if the key was near. His fingers fumbled the gap.
If he just had a pry bar.
A flash of white overhead told him the great owl was on the move—fleeing the darkness that had become a tomb for them both. Thor blinked up at the sky that was graying with dawn. The shift toyed with his balance but he caught himself.
Where was Jorgan? And Haakon? Ida? He needed them.
Even Aven.
One of them would help him.
The vise tightened. Thor pinched his eyes closed, a sour stinging his throat. Pry bar. He tried to jam the thought into what was left of his sanity. He kept one in the nearest shed.
He straightened and didn’t know how long it took to find the iron tool, but he was sweating by the time he sank back against the door of the cider barn. And itching. Something crawled against his skin. He rubbed at his forearm. It was just his imagination. But it itched mighty bad so he scratched at it. Sweat slid down his spine as he rammed the pry bar behind one of the boards and pulled with all his might.
Which wasn’t much.
Something was wrong with him. Cider would fix it. Or wine. He’d even settle for ’shine if he could get some. Thor pulled on the metal bar again, felt the board crack under the force.
But, Lord help him, his skin was itching. He dropped the tool and swatted at his arms—at whatever was on him—heart racing at a maddening speed. Thor sank to one knee, rubbing the outside of his arm against his pants to try and scrub the sensation away.
The sky hazed lighter. He blinked against the splintering brightness as a glow lifted over the treetops. His heart thrashed so hard it hurt. With the rain barrel near—and this itch worsening—Thor rammed his sleeves up and splashed water on his face and arms. It soaked his hair. Sitting, he leaned against the barrel in the shadow of his shop.
Early dawn cooled his damp shirt and he began to tremble. It moved through his body with such force that he could scarcely scratch at his wrists. The back of his neck. His abdomen. But the crawling on his skin wouldn’t stop. A sob rose up his throat.
Suddenly a hand was against his face. So soft that he turned his cheek into it. He opened his eyes. Aven.
Her mouth was moving in speech, but his vision wouldn’t focus. Gripping the rim of the barrel, Thor pulled himself to stand. The motion made his stomach seize and cramp. Down to his knees, he heaved, but there was nothing left. Those small hands held his shoulders. He wanted to shove her back, but something deep down and far away told him not to hurt her.
She smeared his damp hair from his face. He pressed her hand away. His own was shaking so bad he couldn’t shape the words he sought.
He needed her help to get into the cidery.
If he just had the key. All he needed was the key.
He tried to form the word again. Did Aven have the key? Was that why she was here? Thor gripped the fabric of her skirt, pulling her closer. If she had it . . . she could give it to him. Aven. If he could only say her name. Key—if he could only form the word.
Maybe if he could write it. But his chest pocket was wet and empty. He needed to get to the house for some paper. Thor rose and took but a few steps before he fell, knees hitting the dirt hard. He caught himself with his hands before the rest of him collided. He gasped for a breath, needing to slow his heart. He scratched at his wrists. Felt the grit of dirt there. Why was he outside?
Aven was gone. Or had that been his mother?
No, he didn’t have a mother. It had to have been Aven. Maybe she was going to bring him something to drink. Maybe if he asked nicely. He pressed a shaking hand to his chest, trying to form the word please.
His vision blurred as his eyes rolled back. Suddenly the sky was upside down. A fierce pain split the side of his head, and he knew the ground well enough when he rolled onto his side. Tender hands lifted his head, then his face moved against something soft. A woman’s lap. He knew it by the apron pocket and the curve of her waist where he suddenly clutched, desperate for help.
Aven.
She was calling out something—her abdomen sinking and rising in fast jolts against his temple. She moved, pressing her ear to his chest, her breath warm and soft against him.
Aven could feel Thor’s heart thrash along like a raging train. Her cries for Jorgan brought him bursting out of the house, flinging a shirt over his shoulders. Jorgan sank to her side and shouted for Haakon.
“His heart is racing,” she said.
Jorgan pressed a thumb to Thor’s wrist and waited a few moments. “Aven, there’s a sack under your wardrobe with two jars of cider.”
“What?”
“Trust me, it’s there. I put it there. Run and fetch one.”
She shifted Thor to the ground, then ran into the house. Upstairs, she sank in front of the wardrobe and peered beneath. There was the sack. She tugged it out and grabbed a heavy jar, the glass cold to her fingers. Was this wrong? Was this what Thor would want? But when Jorgan hollered her name, Aven rose.
She ran down the stairs and out onto the back porch just as Haakon and Jorgan were carrying Thor to the water trough.
“What are you doing?” she cried.
They dropped him in. He sank below the surface before the two brothers reached down and pulled him back up. Soaked, Thor gasped.
“You’re going to kill him!” she screamed.
“He was unconscious! And I need him back.” They lowered Thor to the ground. Jorgan loosened the top buttons of Thor’s shirt, the plaid sopping and dark.
At a clatter in the kitchen, Aven glanced to the window to see Cora rushing a kettle from the stove. Ida pulled a tin of herbs from the shelf so fast, more tins toppled.