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.

After washing the bread dough from her hands, Silla dried them on the coarse material of her homespun skirts. Ashes, she thought. This week was truly taking a toll on her.

It had all started to unravel when Olaf the Red had requested tenancy payment a week ahead of schedule, stretching their threadbare budget beyond its limits. Next, Silla had burned her thumb while pulling barley cakes from the embers, dropping the full batch into the cookfire. Grains were growing more and more costly—­after three long winters in a row, crops were stunted, and the harvest would be grim. Silla had earned herself a stern verbal lashing for her mistake.

And now the third instance of ill fortune this week—­those foulsome bells.

Silla smoothed the floral embroidery along the belt of her blue apron dress, the same worn by all of Jarl Gunnell’s domestic hands, and made her way outdoors. The jangle of iron keys signaled the arrival of Bera, Jarl Gunnell’s wife and head of the household. Silla quickly found her place in line, fingers threading tightly together as Bera counted them.

“Twelve. All right, on your way, you lot,” she said in a gentle voice, ushering them out. “Let us hope this is swift. For all involved.”