"You need to come to the Dragon right away," Killian said. "We need to talk."

The need to talk phrase never went over well with Freya. She was almost like a dude in this sense. The words filled her with dread and unease. Had she done something wrong? Was Killian mad at her for some reason she couldn't remember? Everything had been going so well lately. Their sex life was back to normal (giving Betty and Seth a run for their money) and they'd succeeded in avoiding the topic of Freddie altogether.

"It's really busy. You know, that new karaoke night thing," Freya said. "Well, it's more like eighties night."

"Try to get off. I really need to talk to you. Please."

Sal had always been good at wrangling impromptu help, and one of his buddies soon joined him behind the bar. Freya was already at the wheel of the Mini Cooper, speeding toward the parking lot by the beach that led to Gardiners Island. When she got to the Dragon, Killian was outside on the deck. He helped her jump on board. Inside the boat, she saw that he had ordered some takeout - there was pasta in foil containers - and had opened up a bottle of red wine, but his plate of food looked untouched and the wine hadn't been poured.

Freya crossed her arms, not quite knowing what to expect. The sense of dread had sunk to the pit of her stomach, and she felt queasy and faint. What did he want to talk about so badly?

"Have a seat," said Killian. "You want a glass of wine?" Invariably, Killian followed his words to Freya with a term of endearment - my love or babe or darling - but there was none of that, which frightened her even more.

"I've had enough to drink for tonight," she said.

"I'll get right down to it," he said earnestly. "I know we've been ignoring the subject lately, but that doesn't mean I haven't done a lot of thinking about it - what you said Freddie told you about me." His back against the granite galley counter, with his face tilted at an angle and his dark lashes batting, he looked even more handsome than was allowed.

God, my man is gorgeous, Freya thought, and she hoped that whatever he had to say to her wouldn't stop them from rocking the boat tonight.

Killian exhaled. "Here's the thing: I don't remember what happened that day."

Freya stared blankly back at him. "What day?"

"The day the Bofrir bridge collapsed. Freddie might be telling the truth," he continued. "I don't understand. There are holes in my memory. I try to remember, but then I hit a wall, and I just can't recall how it all went down. All I know is that there were three of us on the bridge that day. Fryr and Loki were punished, but I got away scot-free. The gods have always looked upon me favorably, but what if, what if ..." His words trailed off.

Freya didn't know what to say or think. What if Freddie were right? What if her brother were telling the truth all along? What Killian said was true: the gods loved Balder; he could do no harm in their eyes. He was Frigg's favorite son. Nothing in all the universe was allowed to touch him, to harm him. He was Balder the Blessed. Balder the Beloved.

"I don't know what happened, but I want to come clean, Freya. I was there. I saw the bridge destroyed, and I remember holding something that didn't belong to me when it was over. But that's all I remember."

Chapter twenty

Sharp-Dressed Man

She was a vision as she walked along the beach: a tall, voluptuous goddess, long golden-brown hair lifting in the wind, silhouetted by the sun. She tugged her coat around her curves, and even from far away Freddie could see the smile forming on her lips as she spotted him. He had sensed her the moment she stepped onto the sand, before he saw her from atop his dune, where he had been waiting for her to come to him, trusting she would as he surveyed the beach, squinting at the sky, watching the waves.

Freddie stood and waved, then quickly scaled down in his bare feet, moving toward her. Hilly Liman. It wasn't quite love at first sight, for Freddie Beauchamp had already toppled during their fervent epistolary courtship. Hilly had materialized for him through his laptop - her vibrancy, her warmth, her little quirks (how she sucked the water out of her toothbrush or made little dolphin-like sounds at the back of her throat when it itched) - and he could recognize her anywhere. His goddess.

They stopped a few feet apart, his eyes tracing the lines of her face, her square jaw, strong cheekbones, a beauty mark beneath an eye, the long, dark lashes of her almond-shaped hazel eyes that stared unwaveringly at him.

Freddie took a deep breath. "You're just as I thought," he said.

"Really? How did you know?" she said with a laugh.

"What about that little hug?" he said.

She nodded. He took a tentative step toward her and she took a more assured one. He hugged her, exhaling a lungful, a release of everything that had been pent up inside him until that moment. Hilly was real, and all he knew was that he loved and wanted her.

She looked up in his face. "I'm glad I'm here," she said. "I'm glad I'm finally hugging you."

They let go of each other and stood apart. "Me, too," he said.

"I can't stay long. It was a long drive from school, and now my parents are expecting me at the house in the city for the weekend."

He was devastated, feeling as if something would be ripped from his skin as soon as Hilly left him. But instead he smiled, and she smiled back.

"I wanted to meet you in person to make sure it was real. You never know with these things," she said. "There could be a lot of projection."

A seagull squawked overhead.

"And ...?" he asked.

"It's real," she said.

"I know." He looked toward the Ucky Star, lifting an arm to encompass the slanting beachside motel with its broken neon light, partly obscured by dunes and reeds. "My palace," he declared.

Hilly turned in that direction, looked back at him, and they both laughed.

"Listen, if we're going to be together, you need to meet my family," Hilly said nervously. Her forehead creased and her countenance darkened. "My dad's sort of strict. He's old-fashioned. I guess I am, too."

"Anything," replied Freddie. He understood from the beginning that Hilly wouldn't be going back to the motel room with him for some sexual gymnastics. Not that he had expected it anyway. Where Hilly was concerned, he wanted to take his time. Freya had warned him about this girl, that he wasn't acting like himself. But Freddie didn't care. So she wanted him to meet her dad. He could do that. Dating. What an odd concept! Did that mean just kissing? Anything for Hilly, though, even if it meant coming out of hiding to meet her father just to be able to gaze longer at her.

"Can you come to dinner tomorrow night?" she asked.

"Sure!" said Freddie, thrilled that he would be seeing her so soon again.

"I'll e-mail you the details," she said. "I really like you, Freddie."

He wanted to reply, I love you, Hilly, but instead he nodded. "Ditto."

For the trip to New York City to meet the Limans, Buster morphed into a black Porsche convertible, the same exact model Freddie had been admiring online. The taglines described it as "driving magic." Freddie thought he would see about that. So far, it was divine, as if the car were an extension of his body, responding to the lightest tap of the gas or the brake, then defying gravity altogether by taking off to the skies. They arrived over Manhattan, where lights twinkled like so many jewels in the dusk, and landed in Central Park by the Turtle Pond, kicking up turf as they alighted and swerved to a halt. Buster turned back into his regular form and now was snuffling about fallen leaves, keeping out of sight until Freddie returned.

Freddie didn't like the city. Buses and taxis spewed toxic fumes, nearly running him over as he made his way to the doorman building on Central Park West, wearing appropriate attire - the gray suit and tie from his "serious" profile picture. The problem with such magical clothes was that they came with a short shelf life, an expiration hour, so to speak, and now he was very much in the same predicament as Cinderella. He hoped he would be out of there before the suit and polka-dot tie faded and he was back in his T-shirt, ripped jeans, and black Converse.

It was not that he wanted to leave Hilly, who was looking resplendent for the occasion - her hair up, a few locks coiling down her cheeks and a delicate strand of silver South Sea pearls around her neck. But since he'd arrived in the Upper West Side apartment, the whole occasion had been a bit bizarre, even for Freddie, who had seen many strange things and many strange worlds over many thousands of years.

For one, the expression shit faced, which he had learned on a television show in his motel room, came to mind. In fact, many of the rules of decorum and social mores of the twenty-first century he'd learned came from cable television. Hilly's mother, Hollis, sitting at one end of the table, was shit faced, though dinner had barely begun. Henry Liman, Hilly's stern father, at the other head of the table - graying hair, a thin black mustache, sharp vulpine features - had let Freddie know several times that he was president and chief executive officer of an extremely successful boating company. He also hadn't stopped grilling Freddie since they sat down to dinner, asking him about his portfolio and throwing words at him like stocks, hedge funds, and derivatives, which Freddie knew nothing about. Besides, what did that have to do with boating?

Meanwhile, Hilly's two older sisters gawked at Freddie. The middle child, Cassandra, a pale, dark-eyed, droopy girl with a slim curving neck and long bony hands, had played a dramatic assonant piece on the piano before dinner. Even Henry had remarked, "Can you play something a bit more melodious next time, my swan?"

Gert, the oldest, looked like a Gert: a bosomy, horsy blond with a toothy, brilliantly white smile. She had managed to monopolize the bread, while still glaring expectantly at Freddie.

It was dark outside, and one could see the tops of Central Park's trees beyond the terrace and, across the park, the glow of the city above the roofs and penthouse gardens. The table, covered in a white cloth, was set with flower centerpieces, birds of paradise, green cymbidium orchids, white lilies, and verdant fronds; silver candelabra with flickering candles; white bone china plates, a small red flag with a star at the center and light blue scalloped trim (from the Titanic, Gert had let Freddie know, though he couldn't tell whether it was with a note of sarcasm or if she was showing off); and gleaming silverware that weighed a ton. There was too much space between the six of them at the extremely long table in the vast room with one red wall and a gleaming black wood floor; the color scheme was not unlike that of boardrooms during a certain chilling German era. A private chef brought the appetizer: crispy duck served medium rare on a bed of wild baby greens with pineapple, mandarin, and lychee.

But before they sat down to eat, Freddie had gone to use the downstairs bathroom and heard strange noises coming from inside. Was it retching? Vomiting? The toilet flushed, and Hilly's mother, Hollis, a tall, slim reed of a woman, came out straightening her skirt, smiling at Freddie and handing him her iPhone. He tried to hand it back, but she would have none of it, flipping it back in his hand so that they awkwardly tossed it back and forth like this for a while. When Freddie finally relented and entered the bathroom, he stared at the device in his hand. There was a note to him on the screen:

<<Freddie, you are adorable. Don't let the man bully you! He'll crush you if he can. I'm on your side. As far as I'm concerned, Hilly is yours. I don't want her making the mistakes I made. Please delete this message when you have finished reading, then give the phone back. XXXX, Hollis>>

Freddie opted for discreetly setting the iPhone down on the credenza in the living room, while Hilly's parents drank their predinner cocktails, Hollis swigging hers enthusiastically, faster than Henry in any case, and he and Hilly sipped Shirley Temples, like ten-year-olds, sitting at opposite ends of the long sectional couch, while Cassandra banged out that earsplitting piece of music and Gert attempted to conceal her laughter, snorting now and then.

Back at the dining-room table, Freddie was being badgered by the man, and the strangest thing of all was that Hollis, swaying hither and thither, watched her husband with an approving smile that seemed perfectly natural albeit - yes - shit faced.

"So what college are you attending, Freddie? Hilly's a Yale girl herself, just pledged the most selective sorority there," he said proudly. "What about you?"

"I don't think they'd take me in any sorority," Freddie replied with a smile, but he only received a frown in return.

Gert yawned loudly. Cassandra, whom they referred to as Swan, broke into high-pitched hyena-like laughter, then turned silent and morose. The chef came to remove the appetizer plates, taking Freddie's even though he had only nibbled a few baby greens, then returned with the entrees.

"Well, Mr. Liman, I mean, Henry" - Hilly's father had insisted on being called Henry, his only bit of graciousness thus far - "I decided to take a little time off before college." It wasn't really a lie. Perhaps Freddie would go to college if that meant getting the man's approval to be with Hilly. He would look into it. How hard could it be?

Henry harrumphed, but Freddie understood it was less to clear his throat than to make his disapprobation known. "So, you are taking time off to live in a motel, to find yourself, some soul seeking before the academic plunge? And your family? They are fine with this?"

Freddie nodded.

Hilly's father frowned more deeply, obviously disappointed that Freddie's family didn't seem to care he was a slacker. Freddie tried to win some points. "Actually my dad's a professor, and he always said we should explore a lot of avenues before committing. He's a big advocate of taking a year off. And Mom's ... a ... a ... free spirit." Freddie had no idea whether his father felt that way, but at least he was honest about his mother. Whatever she was, Joanna was certainly a free spirit.