With Salgrun officially entering into a shepherd''s contract with Dad, my help isn''t needed as much, which means that I''m once more stuck inside. Hooray.


    The needle slips, sharp bone splits skin, and I wince. Blood seeps from my thumb as I quickly stick it in my mouth—Mother will tan my hide for sure if I bleed all over good cloth. A metallic, coppery taste coats my tongue as I grumble to myself.


    I''m sat in the hearth-room a fair bit away from the flickering fire, my only view beyond the house are glimpses of cloudy skies snatched from the tiny smoke-holes perforating the roof. My lap is laden with the working-tools of women at weave; cloth, thread, and plenty of needles to prick myself upon.


    The other women of Einhollstad are close by. Mother carefully guides Asva through the needle-binding process, their fingers a blur as they tie thread into knots in the hundreds. The only woman missing is Randi as she''s currently beating the crap out of the wolf''s pelt around the back of the house. Every once in a while, a heavy thump travels through the walls. She''ll probably be done soon, if I''m counting time right.


    Regardless, I''m stuck practicing my sewing technique while Asva gets to learn how to needle-bind. My damned stumpy fingers lack the dexterity to do either well, but that''s not really the point, you know?


    I don''t even like needle-binding. In fact, that''s not a strong enough word.


    I hate needle-binding. I hate how the string bites against my skin. I hate how my fingers wrap around the needles. I hate how hard it is to fix mistakes and I hate how damned easy they are to make. And most of all, I hate how Asva does it so effortlessly. She never has Mother breathing down her neck, she''s always her perfect little example of all the things I''m not.


    Asva is tall and slender, like a graceful bird in flight; I''m short and rough, prone to trampling and stomping. Asva has deft fingers and can twist them into any shape she wants, my fingers are closer to sausages, more akin to bludgeoning instruments than precision tools, and my palms are always covered in hard calluses. She''s talented too; I''ve never seen her make a mistake while working the loom, not once in all my years on Midgard.


    "Stop slacking, Halla," Mother''s warning tone crashes through my thoughts like a storm does a straw hut, her words whipping me into action faster than a horse can gallop.


    Asva snickers, "How will you ever hope to catch a husband if you can''t even fix his clothes?"


    "If fixing clothes is what you think will get you a husband, then I hope you''re happy with spending the rest of your days alone," I retort, careful to avoid any words of true heat—Dad might let me get away with sharp words, but Mother is different.


    "I don''t need to worry about finding a man, little Halla," Asva shoots back with glee, she''s always been eager to hone her cutting-words, "it''s you I''m fearing for."


    "Then worry not, dearest sister, for a warrior has little need of a husband."


    Asva snorts, "So, what, if you''re a warrior, then won''t you have to have a wife?"


    I blink, words failing before I''d even had a chance to open my mouth. A wife? Like, a woman that I would kiss and stuff, like how Dad does with Mother? Well, I guess that makes sense. Heck, that would actually be pretty nice! I wouldn''t have to do the woman''s work if I had a wife, and I could kiss her and stuff too!


    But... Wait a second, how would we have children then? I''m pretty sure that you need a man and a woman to make babies, I''ve seen enough animals making them to know that''s probably how it works. But...


    Hm, well, if I''m a warrior, then I''d be a man, right? So, it''d work out way better if I had a wife than if I had a husband. Can''t make children if there''s no women. Or, well, I''ve seen rams mount each other before, but I don''t think that either of them gave birth.


    ...This is making my head hurt.


    A shake of the head rids me of mind-spinning thoughts, letting me refocus on the task at ha–


    "Cat got your tongue?" Asva''s eyes gleam as she smirks.


    "No! I was just–"


    "Getting back to work," Mother''s stern words put a stop to our antics. I scowl but do as ordered—these socks won''t fix themselves, after all.


    I hum as I work, the tip of my tongue greeting the smoky air. In and out goes the needle, a calming motion repeated ad infinitum. To speak with the truth at the fore, the whole sewing and weaving thing isn''t that bad. Working with my hands has always kept my focus and I always work best when the task has a clear end point, like in fixing socks.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    When I''m just doing something to do it better is when I find myself slacking. That''s the real difference between men''s and women''s work, I reckon. Men''s work always has a clear objective that, once achieved, you can stop at. Women''s work is endless; and sure, some of it does have those endpoints, like in cooking and cleaning, but there''s so much else that doesn''t.


    Weaving is a perfect example, really. Sure, I''m working with my hands, but it also is endless. My only saving grace is that it isn''t time to shear the sheep. When the shearing season comes and we''re up to our eyes in wool, it''s nothing but loom-work day in and day out.


    From the moment you wake up, you''re working the loom until sun down. Why? Because wealth is measured in cloth, that''s why. An ounce of silver is roughly equal in value to six ells, which is about a hundred-and-twenty inches of cloth. That''s only if it''s vadmal, too, which has to be two ells wide, no more, no less. If you get it wrong and try to barter with it, you can be sure that you''ll either be on the other end of a weapon or in court.


    If there''s one thing we speakers of the law-tongue can agree upon, it''s that wealth is good and having a way to measure it is also good, but being able to actually display your wealth is best. That''s why the value of a farm is measured in cows and not by cloth, as cows are way more visible than cloth is.


    Einhollstad has a herd of sixteen milking cows, which is quite respectable indeed. A milking cow is worth about two ounces of silver, so around two-hundred-and-forty inches of cloth. That values Einhollstad at roughly thirty-two ounces of silver or three-thousand-and-forty inches of wool cloth.


    Obviously, my father''s farm is worth way more than a measly thirty-two ounces. We''ve got plenty more wealth in sheep and goods than we do cows, but that''s a lot harder to quantify than saying we have sixteen cows. It''s also not really realistic to barter with cows as, well, cows are big and ample sources of food over the winter. Don''t want to sell your only source of food for a nice shirt, after all.


    So, yeah, when the shearing season comes and it''s time to weave the cloth, there''s nothing to do but turn wool into silver on the loom.


    A clunky thumping sound trundles through the house, the tell-tale sign of the front door in action. We women of Einhollstad tense, fingers wrapping around knives and needles as we listen for familiar footsteps.


    Before anyone can enter the hearth-room, they must first pass through either of the pantries—one pantry contains this year''s food while the other contains last year''s, we alternate between the two. That gives those inside time to prepare a defense in the case of enemies.


    Fortunately, Dad''s rhythmic tapping reveals his presence long before he opens the door. He smiles as he steps inside, only for his smile to turn strained as Mother turns her withering gaze on him.


    "How many times do I have to tell you, Steinarr?" Mother begins, her ire a cool presence more akin to the calm before a wicked storm than any human emotion, "When you''ve been in the woods, shake the needles from your shoulders before you step inside."


    Dad slides close, long stride—why couldn''t I have gotten any of his height, huh? He''s got plenty to spare!—carrying him well into Mother''s space. In the blink of an eye, his hands are on her cheeks and his lips press to hers.


    Mother squeaks, jolting at the sudden intrusion before melting into Dad''s embrace. I groan as Asva clasps her hands together, brown eyes alight with romantic ideations.


    Mother pulls back, fierce gaze softening ever-so-slightly, "The nerve..." She sighs, slapping a gentle palm against Dad''s chest, "Fine, fine, but you''re cleaning it up!"


    "And I love you too, Asveig," Dad smiles, eyes alight with warm love as thin trails of pinewood smoke leak out between oft-cleaned teeth. A ghostly frown creases all our faces at the smoky sight—the thicker the smoke, the worse things tend to be for Dad.


    "You''re smoking," Mother''s words are blunt, her eyes narrowing to thin slits.


    Dad frowns as he hangs his cloak and takes his seat by the fire. His smoke mingles with the hearth''s, mixing into an indiscernible blend before escaping out the smoke-holes. "Just... I thought I saw someone in the woods, but it was a trick of the light."


    "Was it Horus?" My ears perk up as Mother slides in beside Dad, a hand rubbing small circles into his back. Rare is a chance to learn of Horus, the man who Dad once chased to the very ends of the earth, so I''m all ears.


    Dad''s brows furrow, shadows playing across his bearded face—he''s looking a bit scruffy around the chin, "Can''t be, Persia swallowed him whole."


    Persia? That''s close to Miklagard, right? Or maybe I''m thinking of somewhere else entirely...


    "A son, or nephew? Horus had plenty of kin here, once."


    "No, no, it was just a trick of the light, nothing more," Dad says again, more firmly this time. His words gain a stern edge that thins Mother''s lips. Smoke slips free of his nose, thicker, darker than before.


    Dad... He might be close to having an episode. No, he is close to having an episode.


    I, I have to do something, anything to take his mind off this trail! But what?


    Wait! That''s it!


    I jolt upright, eyes widening with the spark of an idea. Bouncing over to where Dad rests, I speak quickly yet clearly, careful not to stumble over my words, "Dad, can you please teach me weapon-work? Please."


    Mother tenses, eyes hardening as her brows furrow. Her mouth opens, quick to reprimand me for my impudence—I haven''t even finished my sewing!—only for her gaze to pass over Dad and soften yet again.


    If there''s one thing I admire Mother for, it''s that she would do anything to keep her family healthy. Dad going through an episode is the exact opposite of health, so it''s no real surprise to hear her next words, "That sounds like a good idea, Halla. Steinarr, why don''t you take her out and do just that, yes?"


    Dad hesitates, eyes darting between Mother and me is quick succession, before sighing and hanging his head, "Fine, fine, I suppose it''s time for me to show you how to use a sax anyways."


    I cheer while collecting our cloaks.