“She’d make a fine princess.” Tara hears Odin’s words just before the door closes behind her. She draws to a halt and looks around the foyer. None of the guards move and there is no one to greet her, so she thinks she is just supposed to wait. Clasping her hands, she tries to admire the decor. But she can’t.

Princess.

Did she really hear that? If you’re not born a princess, isn’t the only way to become one to marry a prince? Was it a joke? Or a suggestion? Her heart flutters. She doesn't think she's ready to marry Lionel at this very moment, and she doubts he's ready to marry her … but even to be considered. Butterflies flutter within her. She bites back a smile, and then from the hallway she hears footsteps and the echo of voices. “The humans must be brought to heel,” followed by, “Some of them are studying magic … they should be dealt with first. I know the All Father has a plan. I just wish I knew what it was.”

Tara’s eyes go wide, and she looks toward the door. For the first time, one of the guards locks eyes with her. Tara hadn’t thought their eyeballs could even move, and she stands frozen in place, as though hypnotized by a snake.

A third voice says, “But he lost the other two …” and then the voices fade to barely audible whispers. Tara really wants to slide over to the door and take a peek, but she doesn’t move. That could be just idle grumbling. She is pretty sure there are grumblings about the Kremlin in the White House all the time, and vice versa. Maybe that isn’t the best example. Russia isn’t really a friend, but Odin wouldn’t try to hire an enemy … Would he? There is a creak, and Tara jumps. The door from Odin’s office opens and Lionel steps out. He takes a step forward and then pauses. A frown is on his face.

She gives him a timid smile, and his expression softens … but then his eyes dart around the foyer. A few of his bangs fall in front of his eyes, and he pushes them back, his eyes on the guards. “My father suggests I might go see the house he intends for my mother. Would you like to come?” He adds hastily, “He says the gardens are lovely.”

She’d go with him even if they were going to walk through Hell. “Of course, I would. We’re in this together,” she says, and the conviction in her voice surprises her.

His lips turn up a little, but Tara can’t tell if his smile is happy or sad. “I suppose we are.”

The guards have all gone stone-faced again, and there is still no guide.

“Where is this garden?” Tara asks in a slightly too-loud voice, hoping someone takes the hint and offers directions. None of the guards so much as blink at her words.

Lionel huffs, and Tara looks up to see him smiling genuinely. “Finding it is not a problem.” He holds out his arm. Tara takes it and her heart races to be close to him again, to feel the camaraderie she’d felt in his village … and more … Together they step out of the foyer. In the hallway beyond, just to their right, are a small throng of people in brightly colored clothes. Tara surreptitiously studies them, wondering if they were the source of the voices she heard earlier. Some of the men are wearing swords, the hilts gleaming with jewels. If Tara’s fantasy reading has taught her anything, it’s that weapons with lots of bling are either magical, ceremonial, or just plain vanity. Are these Asgard’s idle rich? Does such a thing exist on Asgard?

Lionel leans toward her, and she feels his breath against her ear. Her skin heats deliciously. “Don’t let me bump into a wall when I work my magic,” he whispers, giving her arm a squeeze.

Before she can say a word, Lionel’s body becomes heavier, and she glances up to see his pupils dilated.

One male member of the maybe nobility comes forward. “Lord Odinson,” he says and Lionel’s arm goes rigid in Tara’s. She looks up. His gaze is clear again, his focus on the speaker.

The man bows. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Cyo Tiewson, grandson of Tyr. Pardon the eavesdropping, but my companions and I couldn’t help but hear the lady say you’re looking for the gardens.”

He bows once more to Tara, but not as deeply.

“Thank you for your generous offer,” Lionel says, bowing, a little less deeply than Cyo had bowed to Tara. “But Lady Tara and I have some family business to attend to. I fear it would be most tiresome.”

That was a particularly delicate, long-winded “no thank you.” Is that how things work here? Playing along, Tara gives a slight curtsy to Cyo.

“We would not find it tiresome at all!” declares Cyo with a smile that shows all of his teeth. “Let us be your friends here, Lord!” His companions step forward, and Cyo casually drops his hand upon his sword’s pommel. One by one, his friends echo his move. “There are dangers in the gardens and Asgard for which friends would be useful. Unicorns, the site of Hoenir’s hut and all his abominations—spidermice, winged snakes, the occasional stray basilisk …” He rubs the pommel of his sword.

Tara’s eyes narrow. Cyo and his friends are too close … their smiles too predatory. It’s obviously a threat half-disguised as friendship.

“We’ll be fine,” Lionel says. At his words, Tara feels the tiniest frisson of electricity.

“Really,” says Cyo, stepping into their space. “We mean only—” Cyo yelps and removes his hand from his sword. His friends do likewise. “It’s so cold it burns!” says one.

“Thank you so much for your courtesy,” Lionel says. “But your concern is wholly unnecessary, as touching as it is. I’ll remember it.”

Cyo scowls, but steps back. Frowning, he says to his companions, “Come on,” and his friends follow him away. Lionel and Tara stand motionless as the group passes. From their departing backs Tara hears, “An elf bastard with airs,” and more confusingly, a word her ears hear as “argr,” but her mind wants to connect with “faggot.” It’s a word she’d never use in her life, and it leaves a bad taste in her mouth.

“That last word,” Lionel says. “I didn’t understand it. Did you catch it?”

Tara blinks, and tries to think of the word in Elvish, and can’t find it. That derogatory slur for homosexuality doesn’t translate to Lionel’s mother tongue. There is a term for homosexual, however. When she says it, Lionel snorts. “Of course. They believe that magic is only for women and men who prefer other men.” He tilts his head. “I don’t understand Asgardians.”

Down the hall, one of the women in the party looks over her shoulder, and then says in a stage whisper, “Those ears are hideous.”

Lionel smiles ruefully, and Tara’s heart sinks. He doesn’t fit here, but he has to stay because he helped her.

“I like your ears,” she whispers.

Lionel’s eyes narrow, and for an instant Tara sees suspicion there. But then he laughs, turns to her, and touches an ear tip. “Yes, I think I remember that.”

Tara’s face heats, remembering those points between her fingers. They’re almost as close now as they had been then …

Lionel’s smile evaporates. He leans toward her. Tara’s breath catches, but then he lifts his chin and looks away. His eyes dart about nervously. “I should see the home Odin intends for my mother.”

At his words, Tara has a sickening sensation in her stomach thinking of Tavende in the Dark Lands. She squeezes his arm and whispers, “I'm sure those ravens will find her soon—probably by evening.”

Lionel's focus comes back to her. His eyes hold hers for too long, and Tara sees such warmth there. It feels like a kiss, like potential. She swallows … if they just get through this time, they have all the time in the world to find where that potential might lead.

“I don't know if you're lying,” he says, squeezing her arm. “But thank you.”

She nods, and his eyes get unfocused. She steadies him as he wavers on his feet. “I know the way,” he whispers. Lifting his head, he puts his free hand on top of hers. Butterflies soar in her stomach.

They stride past guards, through a pair of enormous double doors, and emerge in brilliant sunshine at the top of a set of wide steps overlooking a garden. For the first half mile or so, it looks like Tara expects of Versailles: flowers, hedges, trees, fountains, and green spaces all in orderly formations. But beyond that, she sees a wilder forest that stretches to distant purple mountains. Lionel leads her down the steps in that direction.

Stepping onto a gravel path, he asks, “How is it that Asgardians, who have plenty exposure to elves, find pointed ears hideous, but a human does not?”

Tara looks at the distant mountains, enjoying the breeze she imagines is rolling off their peaks. She smiles. “Let me tell you about Mr. Spock.”

Inwardly, she thinks, and let me tell you about Spock and Uhura ...

The gravel of the Lake Trail crunches beneath Lionel’s feet. They leave the manicured area of the garden and enter the wilder, forested sections on the gardens. Tara’s slender arm is still in his. She hadn’t pulled away after he finished his astral projection, or when he put his hand on hers. She’s forgiven him for the night he stole the light from her eyes and her free will in one horrible moment. He’s not sure he deserves even this courtly gesture.

Instead he tries his best to wrap his head around human star treks. It has helped keep his worry for his mother at bay, and him distracted from Tara’s nearness. A little bit.

“I don’t think elves are logical like Vulcans,” Lionel teases. “But they are nearly perfect.”

“Mm … hmm …” Tara murmurs, an edge in her tone like steam escaping from a kettle left too long on the boil. He smirks at her disapproval.

Rolling her eyes, she says, “You’re teasing me.”

“Yes,” he admits, his mood turning, remembering the events of the past day—Rogier, Benedal, his people’s reaction to his heritage—it feels like the joke is on him. He stares into the distance without seeing. “Everything I thought I knew …” He can’t finish the sentence.

Beside him, Tara stops short, drawing him to a halt with her. “Lionel,” she whispers. “There’s a statue of you!”

He follows her gaze and sees a gilded statue of a man with curly hair and features nearly as symmetrical as an elf’s, but slightly broader. In some places, the gold is wearing away, revealing gray stone.

Slipping from his arm, Tara steps off the trail and walks around the statue, head tilted in obvious fascination. “The curly hair is wrong, and the ears, but …” She looks from the statue to him, and back. “He could be your brother.”

“And so, he was,” booms a voice through the trees. Tara and Lionel both spin.

Thor emerges from the underbrush. His hammer is at his hip; in his hands he has a bow and arrow. For someone so enormous, he moves with surprising grace and stealth.

“That is a statue of our departed brother Baldur,” Thor rumbles, inclining his head to the statue. “The bright, beautiful, brave, and wise crown prince.” Smiling sharply, Thor levels his thunder cloud blue eyes on Lionel. Lionel doesn’t fidget, but cold sparks at his fingertips, unbidden.

“What did Baldur do?” Tara asks, her voice all innocence.

“That is the big question,” Lionel answers, eyes still on Thor. There are many first-hand accounts of Baldur’s beauty, and many accounts extolling him for being brave and wise, but there aren’t examples of those qualities.

Thor’s expression softens. “Indeed.” But then his eyes narrow. “Think you could make a better king than Baldur would have?”

Lionel’s aware of Tara sliding protectively closer to him, but keeps his eyes on Thor.

“No one but Odin will ever be king,” Lionel responds. “He’ll never relinquish the throne.” Lionel lets out a breath. “Not that I’d want it. I’ve served Her Majesty long enough to see what rulership entails. It is a lot of tedious work for rewards I don’t want.” Tara looks at him, eyes wide and questioning.

Lionel shrugs. It’s not something he even wants to lie about. “I like a comfortable home, nice food, a soft bed, but I don’t want a palace, the most extravagant feasts, or … well, I do want a soft bed. The night in the cell and then with my back against the tree, present company excepted, were less than ideal.”

Tara smiles. “I’m woefully unambitious in my relatives’ opinions.”

Lionel imagines Odin will have similar opinions about him … but if he were ambitious, he’d probably be dead by now, like Baldur. Asgardians blame Loki, but the Elf Queen has other ideas.

Thor laughs, but not cruelly. “I believe you speak the truth.” The huge man’s arms sag at his sides. “It would be nice to have gotten a chance to get to know you, brother.” He sketches a shallow bow to Tara. “And you, Ms. Tara Gibson.”

Tara tilts her head. “Are you going somewhere?”

“To Jotunheim …” He lifts his eyes to the trees. “I thought it might be nice to have a tromp around the gardens one last time. They’re not the same though now, though. Not since …” His voice trails off.

Birds call in the distance, and the silence stretches too long.

“Jotunheim?” Lionel asks, trying to fill the void. “Why there?”

Thor frowns. “For Ragnarok, brother.”

Lionel swallows. After the battle in Chicago, the queen had said, “When Loki’s power grows, Ragnarok is on the horizon …”

Tara whispers, “That’s the end of the world, isn’t it?”

Thor raises an eyebrow. “Or the beginning. It depends on your perspective, I suppose.” He smiles wistfully. “My lover, Jarnsaxa, is in Jotunheim, and so are my sons Magnus and Modi. In truth, there is no place I’d rather be for Ragnarok, and no one I’d rather be with …” He lets out a breath. “Although, it would be better if Loki were there.”

Tara puts a hand to her mouth.

Lionel gulps, but remembers something about Loki and Thor being friends, and enemies, and friends again. It seems to have been a cycle for much longer than Lionel has been alive.

Thor appraises them. “I hear Father invited you both to stay.”

Lionel smiles tightly. “I don’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” says Thor. His eyes go to Tara. “And you, Ms. Gibson?”

Tara takes a step forward. “It seems like … I might help keep a lot of people safe if I stay here?” The uncertainty in her voice catches Lionel off guard.

“Aye,” Thor responds, sounding weary. “Joining Father would be best if it’s safety that you want most for the human race.”

A bird trills overhead. The moment feels tense, and Lionel can suddenly feel his heart beating in his chest. “Odin has promised Tara the Apples of Idunn. She’ll be magical, like us. She’ll live.” This is the only place for Tara’s safety. How could she choose any other option?

There is a crack overhead, and a twig falls upon Tara’s shoulder. Clutching the spot, she hops forward.

Lionel looks up, sees a squirrel, and feels a flush of magic on his face.

“Ratatoskr,” hisses Thor.

“Fuckity-nuts and basilisk balls,” chirps the squirrel.

Lionel’s eyes go wide. Ratatoskr, servant of the Norns, is the biggest gossip in the Nine Realms.

“What are you doing here?” Thor rumbles, putting away his bow.

“Observing a heartfelt family drama between the bastard princes of the most powerful asshole in the Nine Realms,” squeaks the rodent. It puts a paw to its chest and sniffs. “It’s been fucking touching.”

Lionel’s legs feel weak. He has seen Ratatoskr about the queen’s palace occasionally. The squirrel had never paid attention to him before, but now that he is officially a son of Odin, he’s apparently of interest to Ratatoskr’s mistresses, the All Seeing, very powerful, and deadly Norns.

Ratatoskr winks at Tara. “Of course, I wanted to meet the Nine Realms’ next goddess, too. Hubba, hubba, sweet thang. You know, I know some ladies who like webs—”

Reaching for his hammer, Thor says, “Liar! You’re here to steal apples, aren’t you?”

Swishing his tail, Ratatoskr chitters, “Dragon’s dung, it isn’t even the chitting-chat season!”

Before Lionel can blink, Thor’s hammer goes whipping through the air. Bits of tree branch and sparks of lightning spray around them, and the smell of burning fur fills the air.

“How about I tell Odin how successful your trip to Jotunheim to find Loki will be?” shrieks Ratatoskr.

Catching his hammer, Thor roars.

“Don’t—” Lionel calls. But his half-brother doesn’t seem to hear. The hammer goes ripping through the trees. Ratatoskr leaps. Sparks and branches fly and a limb as large as a man lands right beside Lionel with a ground-shaking thump.

“Run!” shouts Tara.

“Right,” says Lionel.

Heads bowed, they dash toward the trail. Panting, Lionel looks back. Thor has vanished into the trees, but Lionel hears him shouting, “You little rat, come back here and fight like a man!” Ratatoskr’s responses are harder to make out, but Lionel catches expletives in half a dozen languages and “Where the fuck is Loki, Thor?” followed by maniacal laughter.

“That … was weird,” Tara says. Her nose wrinkles in a way that makes Lionel want to kiss it. “And what a foul mouth.”

Lionel shakes his head. “To be fair, the squirrel language is almost entirely swears, and ours are rather tame in comparison.” He frowns. “If he’s here, it means the Norns are watching closely. The queen always said that if Ratatoskr was about, some pivotal event in the Nine Realms was about to unfold.”

“A new prince?” Tara ventures.

“Or a new goddess,” Lionel replies, his lips tugging up in a smile.

They begin to walk again, and the gravel on the trail crunches beneath their feet. “What he said … about Ragnarok, could it be true?” she whispers.

His smile melts, and he cannot answer.

Tara draws to a halt. “That’s a yes, isn’t it?” The gold of her gossamer over-skirt lifts in the breeze. The only thing wrong with this moment is the distance between them. He wants to stay in this moment, safe, forever with her. Safety isn’t guaranteed here, even without Ragnarok, if Cyo is any indication. Still … they might live here for centuries. His mother, too. Lionel can’t be in Alfheim for Ragnarok, and so he can’t be where he wants to be, but he could be with who he wants to be with.

“The queen always says Ragnarok could come at any time,” Lionel says. She’d said much more than that, about how its coming was presaged by Loki’s rise in power. “She always says to live today as best as we possibly can.” He holds out his arm.

Stepping closer to him, Tara takes it.

His natural affinity might be toward ice, but her touch makes his heart pound and his body heat. She has forgiven him … In Alfheim, she'd rejected him because she’d wanted something permanent. Would she believe him if he tells her his goals have changed? He puts a hand on top of hers, and his heart lifts. In Asgard, she’ll be immortal, and he’ll have all the time in the world to convince her.

She looks down the trail. “We need to see that house.”

They do, and thinking about his mother’s situation makes Lionel feel as though the sun has dimmed. His hand on hers tightens. She entwines their fingers and Lionel feels the burden of worry lighten.

They round a bend in the trail, and the lake starts to become visible through the trees. He catches sight of slate blue water and a field.

“The house is a bit remote, isn’t it?” Tara asks.

Lionel sucks in a breath. “The better to be safe from the queen.”

As they walk, a pavilion of white and blue silks, probably for a picnic, comes into view. Beneath it are many ladies and servants. A feminine voice rises from the direction of the pavilion. “Lionel!”

Squinting, Lionel sees a woman waving at him near the pavilion. She has dark skin and nearly black hair wound up in braids that are arranged like a crown. She wears a yellow silk dress appropriate for upper class wives of warriors. At her feet runs a little girl with a slightly darker skin tone, and hair pulled back into puffs tied up with colorful ribbons.

“Lionel!” says the woman again, coming closer. “Ah … you don’t recognize me.”

Lionel blinks and then smiles, recognizing the human woman. “Hannah! You look so young!” She looks like a human of … well … perhaps slightly younger than Tara’s age, but for the past few hundred years she’s had the luxury of Idunn’s apples. Besides bestowing immortality, they have also made her magical. Lionel can feel it licking against his skin. He blinks and sees the color of her magic is a dark green. Blinking again, he manages to bring his vision back to normal.

“That’s because when you first met me, you were still a child,” she says.

Lionel feels his face flush. “That’s probably true.” At the time he’d seen her, she’d seemed impossibly old. Although, it might have been weariness and fear that had made Hannah seem so.

“You barely came to my waist. You’ve grown so much!” Hannah exclaims, still smiling and holding up her arms for an embrace. Lionel leans in and returns the gesture.

Hannah’s dark eyes slide to Tara. “So, this must be the young woman from Earth.”

“Hannah, this is Tara,” Lionel says, and then gives them a quick introduction.

Hannah says, “I hear you’re from the Indiana Territory.”

Tara’s eyes are wide and surprised. “Yes … I’m from Illinois, but it hasn’t been the Indiana territory since …” Her eyes search the clouds, and then she looks down in amazement. “... 1818.”

“I so want to talk to you,” Hannah whispers. “I hear you are the equivalent of a minor magician.”

“And I would like to talk to you, ma’am,” says Tara, leaning forward and nodding.

Hannah takes her hand. “I think we will have the chance.” Biting her lip, Hannah looks up at Lionel. “But I’m afraid it is not just luck that brings me here. I received an invitation I could not refuse.”

“Pardon?” says Lionel.

Motion in the pavilion catches his eye. A great lady is coming forward. Her hair is light brown, her skin slightly darker than his own, and her eyes are blue. She wears white and sky blue, and he feels her magic even from this distance. On either side of her are female attendants in gowns nearly as rich as her own.

“Lionel and Tara,” the woman says imperiously. “We would be so pleased if you would join us for lunch.”

Clearing her throat, Hannah says, “Tara and Lionel, may I introduce you to Her Majesty, Queen Frigga, wife of Odin, Leader of the Nine Realms.”