Gisla rested against her husband's chest, watching the stars through the bedroom window as he drew pictures with words, stories of monsters in the deep and mighty warriors who rode the lightning. Blasphemy, all of it, but not if she pretended that it was just a story, something with which to entertain the children. She followed the arc of a falling star and tightened her grip on Rollo's hand; if wishing for the rasp of his voice against her ear and his strong arms around her always were a sin, then she would gladly bear it.