Tara is sitting in her room, wrapped in a luxurious robe, warm from a bath. There are six maids in front of her, including Ahnohr, from yesterday. Some are clutching neat stacks of silks; a few are holding sparkling shoes. One carries a bouquet of brilliant flowers in a vase. Some of the maids are paler than Lionel with hair textured like Tara’s, and some of them are even darker than her, with straight blonde hair.

“This,” says Ahnohr, holding up a sheer piece of silvery fabric, “is the dress of a Vanir princess. We’re in the midst of a Vanir revival, and it’s all the rage.”

Tara’s lips purse. She might have described it as a “fancy mosquito netting.” There are little gem circles at about chest level, and a gem triangle on a belt. Swirling a finger in the direction of what Ahnohr calls a “dress,” Tara asks, “What do you wear under it?”

“Your body!” says Ahnohr with a wink.

“No,” says Tara.

“But you’ve got the perfect form for it!” Ahnohr declares. “Not too slender, not too fat, perfect. Almost Valkyrian. Show it off …” Lowering her voice, she whispers, “You have the eye of the newly found son. He may be a bastard, and he does have those pointy ears, but he is the heir apparent.” There are murmurs of agreement from the other maids.

She says “pointy” like Tara would say “milk that was left out” and Tara’s skin heats. How dare they think Lionel’s ears hideous.

Crossing her arms, she eyes the dress. What does having the eye of an heir to a throne mean if you’re a lesser unmagical human, anyway? Mistress? She’s not going that route. “No,” she says again.

A maid behind Ahnohr, who looks tiny compared to the others, though she is probably at least five foot seven, whispers, “Ahnohr, remember the other human woman who was here? Their culture is more modest … the dress, it upset her so.”

“Other human woman?” Tara asks in shock.

“She was quite rude,” says Ahnohr with a sniff. “Not polite like you. She was too outspoken. The foolish thing went back to Earth, and she had the All Father’s eye.”

Tara blinks. Definitely not wearing the mosquito net. She almost asks to hear more about this “human woman,” but then the little maid unfurls a red bundle of fabric. “How about this?”

Tara gapes. It is an almost off-the-shoulder, ankle length gown. The shimmering fabric has folds that come together in a V at the chest that will give her a little more curve there, but it smooths out at the waist and stays smooth to just a little below the hip. There it flares into an A-line skirt. The satiny silk continues below a flowing sheer gold gossamer with vibrant red embroidery. The sleeves are also made of the same gossamer fabric, with cuffs embroidered with red.

“That is only a sorceress’s gown,” sniffs Ahnohr.

“I love it,” says Tara. She may never let them take it off her. She can tell in an instant that it will make the most of her skin tone and her athletic frame.

The tiny maid smiles. Behind her, other maids jostle to bring forward shoes, start discussing the makeup she should wear, and the nail polish.

An hour later, Tara is standing before a full-length mirror. Her makeup is perfect: lipstick a slightly darker shade of red than the dress, nails the same, and pale gold eyeshadow. They’ve accessorized the dress with a drop necklace of gold and rubies. For shoes, they’ve given her sparkly red and gold flats. Normally, Tara would decry flats as blasphemy of all that is good and fashionable—the dress deserves, no begs, for a sexy pair of heels. Although—the cute little “peasant” Light Elf shoes would have also worked—sadly, they’re in Benedal’s rooms back in Alfheim. All that said, recent events make her grateful for the ability to run. The only thing left … Tara picks at her hair, freshly washed, magically dried and standing up at attention in every direction, except for the few curls that seem determined to dangle over her forehead. “I look like a black dandelion gone to seed,” she mutters.

Nodding beside her, Ahnohr smiles. “I’m sure that is a lovely flower. But this needs something, you’re about to have an audience with the prince …”

There are titters all around, and “he looks so much like his brother except for those unfortunate ears!” and “Lionel’s hair isn’t curly.” Which makes Tara very confused. Thor’s hair isn’t curly, either.

“... and the king,” Ahnohr says. The tittering stops and there is earnest conversation about hair accessories. One of the maids breaks the bloom off a flower and presents it to Ahnohr. It is a red and yellow blossom that sparkles with golden pollen, not quite the breadth of Tara’s palm. “What about this?”

Ahnohr’s eyes widen. “Oh, yes, magic it so it will not wilt!”

The other maid blows upon it, and then Ahnohr pins it behind Tara’s ear. She turns Tara back to the mirror. “That is perfect,” she says.

All the other maids nod. Tara’s not so sure—yes, Tavende’s magic had made her natural hair glossy and healthy, but it is so short and puffy.

Ahnohr declares, “Look at the time. You’ll be late for your audience with the king,” and Tara decides she’s just going to have to go with it.

She’s led through the halls again, this time by Ahnohr. For some reason, the hallways have more people than the day before. Tara tries not to stare … but can’t quite help herself. Asgardians appear to come in every shade and are taller than the elves. They nod and smile at her in passing, whether they are dressed in servants’ garb, or more formal attire. She notices that, like the elves, social class and skin coloring do not seem to be at all related. She mentally searches the Asgardian language for “racism” and doesn’t find the word.

They pass a group of women in armor, wearing vests with wings attached, and swords in their belts. One of them calls to her in a cheerful voice, “Will you be joining the ranks of Freyja’s Valkyries, Sister?”

Tara shrugs and shakes her head, as Ahnohr leads her past them.

“We’ll be here for you if you need us!” One calls back in a very loud, boisterous, and camaraderie voice.

“You could, you know,” Ahnohr whispers. “Personally, for me, I’m too timid. Their training …” She shivers. “I don’t like being poked with spears or having my bones broken for practice.”

Tara’s eyes widen. “Pardon?”

“Well, generally they’re weaker than the male warriors,” Ahnohr explains. “So, they make it up with fierceness, indifference to pain, and the ability to heal wounds and bones faster. They practice those things … a lot.”

Tara’s knees go weak. Ahnohr stops at two double doors that are ajar. “I’ll leave you here, Milady.” She gives a wide grin and bounces on her feet. “I think the All Father has great plans for you, yes I do.”

“Great plans?” whispers Tara.

“Oh, yes,” says Ahnohr. “He put your room right next to Lionel’s.” She gives a knowing nod. “Play your cards right, ignore those ears, and you’ll do well.”

Tara’s brow furrows. A mental search does turn up a word for “class.” She’s pretty sure, as an unmagical human, she is among the least class, despite the hospitality. All she says, though, is, “Thank you, Ahnohr.”

The maid curtsies and smiles.

From the open door, Odin’s voice rumbles, “Tara Gibson, you’ve arrived.”

Tara turns. Within the double doors is a great room that appears to be a sort of foyer. There is a gold and red silk carpet, an enormous chandelier, and another set of double doors at the far side guarded by two men in gleaming armor. The doors are thrown wide open, and standing just inside is Lionel silhouetted by a beam of sunlight. He wears a sort of armored vest that appears to be made of white gold. Her breath catches. His eyes meet hers and he takes a step forward.

“Well, come in, Tara!” Odin says with a chuckle. Which is when Tara first notices the king, a little to Lionel’s left, behind a great wooden desk. Two ravens are hopping up and down on the back of an enormous chair behind him.

Lifting her chin, Tara enters the first great room and passes into the second. The doors slam behind her.

As Tara enters Odin’s study, Lionel feels breathless. Clad in the gown of a Vanir sorceress, she seems to float above the floor. Everything about Asgard is bigger than on Alfheim, even the inhabitants. They’re taller, stronger, broader in the shoulder. Tara looks like she belongs here. Her hair halos her face, and the red and gold of the sorceress’s gown and flower suit her perfectly.

The doors shuts, and Tara curtsies. “Your Majesty.”

“You look beautiful!” Odin rumbles with a smile, and Lionel internally berates himself for not having said it first. Recovering, he inclines his head, eyes on her midnight tresses, and says, “A halo suits you.”

It must have been the wrong thing to say because her lips purse and she looks confused. He turns quickly back to the All Father.

“Now, I need you two to tell me exactly what happened,” Odin says. “So I can resolve the fury among the elf High Houses.”

The ravens whistle. Tara gives Lionel a worried glance. He gives her a nod that he hopes is reassuring, and she begins her tale. When Tara tells of Rogier’s first advance upon her in Benedal’s chambers, Lionel thinks he almost turns the room to ice. Odin holds up a finger, eyes intent on Tara, and Lionel’s magic never leaves his fingertips. Lionel blinks, and sees the All Father’s magic wrapping around him. It is as dark and strong as a cloudy night.

When Lionel tells his version of events, he chokes up, relating how he told his mother to go to the edge of the Dark Lands. The Dark Elves are enemies of Odin and the Elf Queen. Has he turned his mother into one of Odin’s enemies? “I am sorry, sir, but I wasn’t thinking and—”

Odin cuts him off with a wave. “For Light Elves who irritate the High Houses, it is the only escape. Lady Benedal is vengeful and petty.”

“Tavende is too small to be in the Dark Lands alone,” Tara bursts out.

Lionel swallows and meets her wide-eyed gaze. She’s right. Even if his mother finds a safe house on the border, she’ll be in danger of starvation.

“Agreed,” Odin rumbles. “Your mother is much too gentle for that dark place. We will find her, son. Once we do, we’ll send out a party and bring her here where she will have amnesty.”

“Oh,” says Tara. “Yes.”

All Lionel can do is nod.

“Frigga will be … intolerable …” Odin mutters, referring to his wife. “But she’ll get over it.” Meeting Lionel’s gaze, he says, “Your mother can’t stay in the palace. However, there is a lovely cottage that has recently come back into my possession in the gardens. Tavende will love it.”

Lionel bows again. “Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”

The king whistles, and one of the ravens rawks, “Yes, Master?”

“Find Tavende,” Odin instructs. “Tell her what I just told Lionel. If she has found a bolt hole, tell her to stay safe. If she hasn’t, help her find one or get to the Golden Road. I’ll deal with the Elf Queen and the High Houses.”

Lionel swallows. He supposes he shouldn’t be shocked that Odin knows that there are safe houses, “bolt holes” as he calls them, at the edge of the Dark Lands.

The raven bobs its head. “Yes, master.” Lifting its wings, it flies out the window. The other follows. Odin’s single eye bores into Lionel, as if guessing his thoughts. “Once we know her location, we can send a team.”

Lionel’s hands clench behind his back. There are hundreds of thousands of paces of border between the Dark Lands and the realm of the Light Elves. Intellectually, Lionel understands that sending the ravens is the fastest way to find and help his mother. Emotionally, he wants to leave now.

He bows low but can’t quite manage a thank you.

Odin comes around the side of the desk. “And now … onto the matter of Ms. Gibson.”

Lionel straightens, feeling like his body is a wire pulled too tight. To his surprise, he finds Odin smiling genially, half sitting on his desk.

“You are as lovely on the outside as you are on the inside, Ms. Gibson.” Odin turns his single piercing eye to Lionel. “Did you know she has prevented the death of hundreds of her city’s citizens?”

Lionel’s jaw falls open and he looks at Tara. Her eyes are wide.

A smile tugs at Lionel’s lips. “I did not, but I am not surprised.”

Putting a hand to her mouth, Tara says, “I am.”

Chuckling, Odin says, “Your timely warnings to the populace through your”—he grimaces—“magical tele-phones and com-pu-ters has saved many an innocent.”

“Oh,” says Tara.

“You went around your superiors to do so.” His single eye narrows, and Lionel straightens. Odin doesn’t like anyone subverting him.

Tara lifts her chin. “They were too busy with interdepartmental politics to think of the people who might be hurt.”

Lionel slides infinitesimally closer to Tara. He isn’t sure where Odin is going with this.

Odin nods. “Agreed, and I can’t abide that sort of inefficiency and pettiness.” He waves a hand. “And for a woman to go around her superiors out of mercy—” He tilts his head. “It is not such a bad thing.”

Tara looks at the floor. Her eyes are wild and confused. Lionel is confused, too.

“Would you like to help more people, Ms. Gibson?” Odin asks.

Tara lifts her head. “Pardon, Your Majesty?”

Odin sighs. “I’ve been failing your world, Ms. Gibson.”

Tara glances at Lionel, and he can see the silent plea for help, but he doesn’t know what to say. He shrugs and shakes his head. Looking back at the All Father, Tara says softly, “I’m sure that is not true.”

Raising an eyebrow, Odin says, “The trolls, wyrms, Dark Elves, and other monsters coming to your world, they are my responsibility to keep out, and I have been failing.” He releases a long breath. “Before, Loki would close the World Gates that open from time to time in your realm.”

Lionel’s brow furrows. He’d heard that only Loki and Odin were capable of that. For Loki it was, according to his former mistress, “a natural extension of his destructive tendencies, but it weakens Odin terribly.”

Lionel holds this thought as the All Father continues, “But as you so tragically saw in your city, Loki became … deranged. I no longer have him to help me close gates. I’m overstretched trying to put down a violent uprising among the dwarves. The Frost Giants and Fire Giants are always on the brink of war with themselves, and it is a constant challenge to keep the violence from spilling over into the other realms.” He raises an eyebrow imperiously at Tara. “Including yours.”

Lionel hears Tara gulp and shifts on his feet. He’s heard that Odin deliberately destabilizes the Frost and Fire Giants to keep them from becoming too powerful. He’s not sure if that is a horrible thing; the giants are brutal and savage creatures. His jaw shifts … of course, he’s heard that of humans, too.

“I’m not sure how I could be of service,” Tara says.

Odin beams at her. “Why, by doing what you’ve been doing. Keeping the people of Earth informed of new World Gates through your com-pu-ters and technology.” He waves a hand. “But on a much larger scale. It’s not just Chicago that suffers. There was, ah, an event … that ruptured time and space. World Gates will continue to open up at an unprecedented rate for the next few centuries. If you had access to, say, a magic device designed to detect new gates, you could carry on as you’ve been doing. But you’d be helping many more people, and openly, with impunity.”

Tara takes a step forward, and Lionel could see the excitement in her eyes. “I would love that …” Her lips purse, and her eyes drop to the floor. “Although, I think if I had a magical device on Earth, it would most likely be confiscated from me, Sir.”

“Which is why you’d be stationed here,” says Odin.

“My mother—”

“Needs to know where you are,” Odin responds. “Of course, you’d be allowed to visit … regularly … but I’d need you here.”

Lionel’s heart beats faster, with hope too fragile to voice. Odin doesn’t keep mortals in Asgard.

Tara’s lips part as though she is about to speak.

The All Father says, “I need to get a com-pu-ter, have my office wi-red and learn to use the internets … I’m sure you’d be just the sort to teach me.”

Tara clasps her hands in front of her and rocks on her feet. “Sir, I do want to help you, but I don’t know if a Wi-Fi signal would carry through a World Gate, if sir, it’s access to Earth’s internet that you want.”

Lionel blinks at the “gibberish” but Odin nods. “It is. We’d need to establish a permanently open World Gate, a tricky thing. How big do you think it would have to be?”

Lionel sees Tara bouncing a little on her feet, her eyes shining. “I don’t know, sir, but I’d love to find out! We’d need a hot spot on Earth somewhere—”

Waving a hand, Odin says, “I’ve been meaning to establish some embassies at various Earth capitals.”

“Oh! Oh!” Tara actually hops, and Lionel has to stifle a laugh at her pure joy. “That would work on the Earth end. I have no idea about the rest, sir, but … I’m sure there must be a way. We’d need electricity here.”

“A magical object could be devised to generate electricity,” Lionel interjects.

Tara smiles at him. “I’ve got a lot of experience wiring buildings and dealing with generators. It might take a little time, but I’m sure I could put something together.”

Lionel smiles back. “And I’m very good at opening up World Gates. I could help you—”

“No,” Odin cuts him off.

Lionel looks at the All Father. Odin is frowning at him. “This is women’s magic, Lionel. To be a prince in this realm, you need to become better acquainted with swords.”

Lionel’s mouth suddenly feels very dry. Asgardians are dismissive of men who practice magic—although their king is more powerful than even Alfheim’s Queen. Lionel’s former mistress had said Odin kept the general populace magically ignorant to cement his power. He fights the frown tugging at his lips. Odin will be learning Midgard’s magics if Tara installs their com-pu-ters in his office. He’ll be even more powerful …

“I’m very good with a bow and a knife,” he manages to say. All farmer Light Elves near the border have to be, but Odin doesn’t appear to have heard. Turning back to Tara, the All Father says, “You’d take the oath of service to be entitled to the Apples of Idunn.”

Lionel’s reservations about the All Father’s consolidation of power evaporate in an instant. He looks to Tara. Her lips are parted, and there is a crease in between her brows.

“You’d live forever,” Lionel explains in a whisper. “You’ll never grow old.”

“You’ll be a goddess,” Odin adds, the side of his mouth curling in a smile. “The Goddess of Internets and Forewarning, perhaps.”

Tara’s mouth drops. “Oh,” she whispers. She takes a step back. “Oh.”

She curtsies deeply, and Odin chuckles. Rising, she says, “Your Majesty, Sire, this is a lot to take in.”

“Well, you may think about it until this evening.” He smiles kindly. “I will be leaving for Muspelheim on the morrow, so I’ll need your answer then.”

Tara’s brows rise.

“Land of the Fire Giants,” Lionel whispers, wondering what business Odin has there that he’d have to see to it personally.

“You’ll save thousands, Ms. Gibson,” Odin says. “Forewarned is forearmed, and your people are resourceful enough to manage once they have warning.”

Tara rises from her curtsy and there are stars in her eyes. There may be some in Lionel’s, too.

“Now, Ms. Gibson,” Odin says. “I wonder if you might give me a little time with my son.”

“Oh, yes, of course, Your Majesty.” The doors open behind her, and with another curtsy, she leaves the room. Lionel follows her with his eyes.

As the doors close, Odin says, “She’d make a fine princess.”

Lionel turns to Odin and the doors shut with a thump and a click. His mind tumbles over the word, “princess.” The only way that would happen would be if she were to marry a prince.

Looking like he wants to spit something foul from his mouth, Odin says, “We had a couple of other human visitors. They were very rude. But that one …” His eye narrows. “She’d be a deft hand at court politics in less than a decade.”

Lionel stares speechless. Lionel hasn’t been officially declared a prince yet. If he means Tara and Thor. Magic so cold that it feels like heat jumps at his fingertips.

“Well?” says Odin, single icy blue eye focused on Lionel. “You risked your neck to keep Rogier from fucking her—”

Lionel rocks back on his feet, the crude language catching him off guard.

“—you’d be able to tolerate her as your wife, wouldn’t you?” Odin rumbles.

“The lady is more than tolerable,” Lionel says.

With a soft huff, Odin looks heavenward. “Oh, they all are to start.” Canting his head, he meets Lionel’s gaze. “But I’m glad you’re amenable. Good. We need to build up our presence on Earth. They’ve got weapons that could turn Asgard and Alfheim to plains of glass.”

Lionel swallows. He had heard of the human’s foray into “nuclear weapons,” but Tara was so kind and civilized. He hadn’t thought of it once in her company.

“A diplomatic front is what we need,” Odin says. “While we work on our defenses … and our offenses.” His eye goes to the door as though looking through it. “The business in Eastern Europe has put some of their governments on edge …”

Lionel blinks. He thinks he’d heard something about Odin sending Freyr and a contingent of Valkyries and Einherjar to Midgard’s Eastern Europe. Was that why they were too busy to handle the Dark Elves crossing over to Chicago?

Odin continues. “A marriage between an Asgardian prince and a human would go far as a distraction among the common folk, and make them less amenable to hostilities between our races.” The All Father snorts derisively. “They may be ‘democracies,’ but they love royal romance.”

Hands clasped behind his back, Lionel bows his head, mind spinning and his heart beating fast. He knew that Asgardian marriage alliances were political; he hadn’t considered he’d be thrust into the game so quickly. Tara, his mother, and he are obviously pawns on Odin’s chessboard … Does he care? In Asgard, Tara can live forever, his mother can be safe, and Tara and he might be married, which makes him equally terrified and elated. There is, of course, a potential snag in the plan. “The lady might not be agreeable to the union.” He’d made a horrible bungle of his first advances.

Odin snorts. “I’ll declare you a prince lad, officially, and she’ll be agreeable. Every woman wants a prince … or rather, to be a princess.”

Lionel’s clasped hands squeeze so tight he thinks he might shatter bone. Did Odin miss the part of Tara helping Lionel defeat a prince whose attention she’d attracted? Tara isn’t like that. Does the All Father imagine all women’s minds are formed in a single mold?

“Woo her … charm her,” Odin says. Unrolling a parchment, he adds distractedly, “That is my first order to you as my subject. You can take her to the gardens. I hear they’re lovely this time of year. Follow the Lake Trail. It will take you to your mother’s cottage.” The All Father looks up from the document, a slow smile spreading across his face. He licks his lips. “You know your mother best … see if there can be anything done to it that will make her more comfortable.”

Lionel bows. “Of course.”

Scanning the parchment again, Odin says, “You’re dismissed.”

Lionel turns and the doors open by an unseen hand. Tara is in the foyer beyond.

He walks toward her, his steps tentative, half expecting and hoping for another hallucination … surely, his visions have been premonitions of them being together?

The vision doesn’t come.

His lips form a hard line. Well … even if they won’t be together, she will at least be immortal. She won’t have to die. His steps become surer.

Tara meets his gaze. She gives him an odd sort of timid smile.

After Odin’s offer, does this place still scare her?

Lionel draws to a halt, remembering Odin’s slow smile talking about his mother, and his tongue flicking across his lips.

Maybe this place should scare them both.