door to his shop and Olav pulled away from Zarabeth, jumping to his feet. âI know not who it is, but have more ale ready,â he said over his shoulder, as he walked the length of the room, lifting the thick fur that separated the living quarters from his front shop, and disappeared.
Lotti made a strange sound and Zarabeth whipped about to look at her. The little girl had stuffed her fist in her mouth. Her eyesâa deep golden colorâwere wide and scared. Her hair was the color of ginger root and wrapped in braids around her small head. Her skin was fair, with a smattering of freckles over her nose.
Zarabeth dropped to her knees beside her sister.She spoke clearly and firmly. âThere is nothing to be afraid of, Lotti. Your father wonât ever hurt you, I swear it. You belong to me and I will always take care of you. Do you understand, sweeting?â
The child looked at her, and her look of fear faded. She smiled and patted Zarabethâs hand. At that moment Zarabeth felt something inside her clench and twist at the look of complete trust on her little sisterâs face. No one should accord another such trust and belief, yet Lotti believed in her unconditionally. Zarabeth knew she was but a woman, not trained in weapons to defend either herself or Lotti. Still, it didnât matter. She would never allow it to matter. She rose slowly, brushing off her gown.
Olav returned to the room, followed by his son, Keith. A man shorter than his father, Keith had dark hair and dark eyes, a sallow complexion, and a thick beard of which he was inordinately proud. He had the habit of stroking his fingers through the coarse strands endlessly. Keith was the image, Olav had always said with just a bit of sarcasm, of his mother. He was well-formed and not unhandsome, despite the slight limp from a broken leg when he had been a boy. There was also a thin scar from his temple to his jaw, but it didnât disfigure him. He wasnât stupid, though he hadnât been able to copy his fatherâs success as a trader. He had not the talent, but Olav wouldnât admit it. He was easily manipulated, Olav would say, shaking his head, though he was the one who usually did the manipulating. Aye, poor Keith was easily swayed, by other traders, by the tanner, by the smithy, by the jewelerâthe list was endless.
He was twenty-two, married to a woman who pretended subservience in his presence and was a sharp-tongued bitch when he was gone from her. To his credit, he had, for the most part, simply ignored Zarabeth when his father had brought her and Maraback to York, showing neither like nor dislike for her. But it seemed to her that he had somehow changed during the past few months. He came more often to his fatherâs house, many times without Toki, and she had seen him looking at her while he stroked his beard, pretending to listen to his fatherâs endless stream of advice. She took care never to be alone with him.
She saw him staring at her now, and nodded, her expression remaining passive.
âWhere is your wife?â Olav was asking his son.
âToki is at home, where she belongs. She has her womanâs curse and claims she is ailing.â Keith shrugged and looked toward the wooden bottle of ale. âYou bought her for me, you know her well enough. She has more of her motherâs character by the month. I am the only one who knows her sweetness of nature.â
Zarabeth wanted to hoot with laughter at Keithâs summing-up of his wifeâs character. Olav chose to ignore his sonâs whining and the hint of bitterness. By all the gods, he did know Tokiâs mother, a creature to make a manâs rod shrivel. He said only, his voice vague, for his thoughts were still of the damned Viking and Zarabeth, âExcellent. Would you like a cup of ale?â
Keith nodded and seated himself at the table. He said to Zarabeth, âYou are well, sister?â
She nodded, saying nothing
Gary Pullin Liisa Ladouceur
The Broken Wheel (v3.1)[htm]