"I don't want to risk it, I have to make sure I have enough power to get us back home. Whatever we need to do, we need to do now."

Chapter fifty-three

Smoke on the Water

The treasure expedition was nothing at all as Freddie had envisioned. He had anticipated something exciting, walking about the deck with wind and ocean spray in his face, rigging, pulling, feeding lines, winching, cleating ropes, and such - the thrill of unfurling the sails, catching the wind in them, then harnessing it. Freddie loved to wear himself out physically, using his body to maximum capacity until it was sore and he collapsed from all the effort he had expended. Kind of like sex. That's how he had pictured it.

It was nothing like that.

First, they had taken all his effects from him, including the new cell phone Joanna had bought him. He'd barely had enough time to text Freya and his dad to tell them he had gotten the job. Then he and Captain Atkins, along with a rough-and-tumble crew of young men, had flown in a private plane to what Freddie had gathered was a Caribbean island; he overheard "St. Lucia," as much as they tried to keep him in the dark. After a drive, during which Freddie was blindfolded, they boarded an eighty-foot-long, three-mast schooner, which was beautiful, but then Captain Atkins kept Freddie confined to his berth under lock and key as they weighed anchor. It wasn't in an unkind way, though. The captain said it was for Freddie's own good. He wasn't to know the exact spot where the treasure was to be excavated until they arrived close to it. The only view Freddie was afforded during the trip was through a little porthole where he could see water rushing and frothing past, but that was all. He did enjoy the occasional swell, about five to six feet high he judged - a calm sea.

The schooner had been rocking in place for a while when Captain Atkins finally came to Freddie's berth. He handed him a wetsuit to don and told him to come up to the deck once he had it on, then he left the door unlocked.

The view of the island from where they had set anchor took Freddie's breath away, a towering volcanic peak partly covered in rain forest with nary a sandy beach but craggy black cliffs lifting from the turquoise-green waters - the jagged peak like a black diamond, the trees clusters of emeralds. It was a perfect day, the sun warm but not overbearing, a soft tropical breeze, just hints of clouds in the cerulean sky. Captain Atkins and a scruffy-looking crew member helped Freddie into the scuba gear.

"You can scuba, right?" the captain asked. "You are trained and certified I presume."

"Absolutely," he lied, but he wasn't worried. "Breathing underwater? No problemo." Not only was he a natural swimmer, a natural athlete with excellent hand-eye coordination - he was also one with all that was sun and sea.

Harold smiled. "Well, not to worry, we have this nifty little thing." The captain placed what resembled a watch on Freddie's wrist. "It's a top-notch, state-of-the-art dive computer. Even someone with zero experience would be able to follow rate of descent and ascent on this thing. Plus, we are giving you Nitrox in case you need to stay down there longer than anticipated. I'll explain it all. No worries - you're a strong boy. You're going to love it, but don't let yourself get too distracted by the colorful seascape." He gave Freddie a pat on the back, then nodded at the scruffy guy with an Italian accent, letting him know they needed to be alone. "Come sit with me for a bit, Freddie. We need to look at the map."

Finally, it was time to dive. Freddie swam following the instructions to a T. The prize was Hilly, so he was anxious to complete his mission and do it well. Beneath the water, the rock of the island continued for seventy or more feet deep. There was an array of caves and yawning craters beneath him, all encrusted with DayGlo coral reefs and orange elephant ear, netted barrel, and green finger sponges. It was like another land, the colors so vivid. He hadn't ever seen anything like it before, not in all the other eight worlds.

He glimpsed a reef shark peering out from between rocks and kept going, then followed a hawksbill turtle, going in the correct direction according to his compass. He saw adorable sea horses and frog fish. It was wonderful to be back in the ocean again. This could certainly become a hobby for him and Hilly once they were together, he thought. He wished she were here now, sharing it all silently.

That was the thing; it was so peacefully quiet in the ocean depths. The twenty-first century was great, but it could get so loud, especially New York City - where Hilly said she wanted to work at a magazine once she graduated from college - always some noise somewhere. If it wasn't cars and horns honking, it was a jackhammer or pile driver making one clap hands over the ears. Maybe Hilly and he could move to the Caribbean instead. He wondered if she would be agreeable to that.

Every now and then, he checked the diving watch to make sure he wasn't descending too fast. He felt a pocket of warm water, a geothermal vent, pushing bubbles at him and swam through them, against its current. This would lead him to the tunnel swim-through where he would hopefully find the treasure.

He found it inside the recess where Captain Atkins had told him it would be, lodged between rocks: a long, slim gold-filigreed rectangular case. He pried it out, and it fell into his hands as if he owned it. It wasn't too heavy, just kind of long and unwieldy. He strapped it to his back, then began timing his ascent.

Soon Hilly would be his.

Chapter fifty-four

Orinoco Flow

Inside the carrel at the library, Ingrid had fallen asleep. Drool had pooled onto the page of the oversize book on which her head rested, mouth agape. She woke with a start, and looked down at the page with a black-and-white lithograph of a map of the Nine Worlds, Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life, at their axis, and saw a huge unsightly wet spot on it. She quickly wiped it off with her sleeve, looking around as she did so, but there was no one back here.

She'd had a dream. There had been so much water in it - clear, turquoise, not frightening but pure, inviting. It was so blissfully peaceful, just the lightest, quietest trickling and gurgling in the background. She had been reading about Yggdrasil, then studied its maps before she'd fallen asleep. She rubbed at her eyes. An enormous serpent coiled around Yggdrasil's roots perpetually gnawing at them, animals fed on its sap, goats and stags grazed on its tender shoots, and yet still it persisted, regenerating, evergreen, supplying life with its elan vital, both its humanity and aggression.

The Norns were devoted to the tree, covering its nicks and sores with white clay from Mimir, the spring of wisdom and understanding, giving it offerings, saying prayers, pouring water over its branches and roots from the well of fate. The water dripped down from its enormous leaves and roots, falling down to earth, where it turned into dew.

The problem with the maps was that they all slightly diverged. For instance, Vanaheim, Ingrid's home world, was located on some maps directly beneath Asgard, which was at the zenith, above the tiptop branches of Yggdrasil, whereas others placed Vanaheim on the same horizontal plane as Midgard (earth), located at the center of the holy tree. But all the maps placed Asgard at the top and alfheim (land of the pixies) somewhere between Asgard and Midgard, which made sense if someone from Asgard had plunked the pixies down in North Hampton. But only Odin and Frigg remained in Asgard.

Water, Ingrid thought. Water. That is it - the water from her dream. At least, it was one key she needed.

Chapter fifty-five

Come to My Window

Easier said than done: finding attire in the middle of the night in Fairstone to dress Killian in less conspicuous clothing than his sweater and jeans. He wore leather boots, so those would pass. The villagers appeared wary of leaving a stitch of clothing, even a pair of underclothes or a blouse, on the clotheslines in their backyards and gardens. The lines hung bare. Freya realized that in the twenty-first century she had come to take her vast wardrobe for granted, whereas someone in the seventeenth century, living in an agricultural and fishing village, could barely afford one outfit, let alone two.

Everyone was asleep at this hour. Since they were not to waste their magic, they had to find clothing the hard way and tried to sneak inside several houses, but the doors were bolted shut. Finally, on the outskirts of town, they found a shack, and inside they crept by a slumbering man, who only flipped over at the sounds of their entry, and they swiftly snatched the loose breaches and linen shirt he had set out on a chair beside the bed. They hoped the poor, unsuspecting heavy sleeper had something to replace these with, although most likely if he did have another set it was just his Sunday best. The clothes fit Killian, but he wrinkled his nose at the smell. As for a hat, they found one on a peg in a barn, along with a goatskin water bag, which they filled at a well, flinching at the groan and squeaks of the bucket rising.

Now Freya and Killian trudged hand in hand through the field toward the wooden barracks where they were holding Anne. The pulsing song of the cicadas drowned out their whispers. A watchman sat beneath the single torchlight, half asleep on a chair. Freya recognized the stocky, big-bellied guard as the very one who had accepted her coin in the square - except that hadn't happened anymore. Working a double shift. She knew he would be amenable to gold, so she stopped and ripped the seam Joanna had sewn once again and took out the pouch, handing Killian a coin.

The guard happily accepted the money. He was probably used to these nocturnal visits that greased his palm, a perk of the job. "Fourth one down," he muttered.

There was snoring coming from a pen; they saw forms crouched or curled on the floor in each, no more than four feet high. These poor people, caged like animals, Freya thought. They kneeled when they arrived before Anne's cell.

"Anne!" called Freya. She could see her stirring in the corner in dim moonlight. She was relieved to see the white cap back on her head.

"Anne," repeated Killian, a bit louder.

"Oui!" she whispered. "C'est toi, mon chou, mon cherie? Tu es revenue?" Her voice was raspy and weak. She moved out from the corner and wriggled forward toward the bars.

Freya coughed. "She thinks you're her husband who has returned for her," she said to Killian.

"Yes," he said with a sympathetic frown.

Anne's hands clasped the bars and her nose fell between them. Her eyes were crusted, her big lovely lips caked with blood, her face black with dirt. It was all Freya could do not to throw a hex on the whole populace.

"John!" Anne said.

Freya caressed her hand. "It is not John. It is Killian and Freya. We have come to help you, Anne."

She let out a sigh and her head fell down. "I don't want to confess!" she said in her French accent. "If I do, then next they will say John is amiable with the devil. I do not want my husband to hang."

"I know," said Freya. "We're trying to save both of you." She slipped a hand through the bars and helped Anne lift her head.

"Let me give her water," said Killian, and he lifted the goatskin bag so Anne could drink.

Freya looked over her shoulder. The guard had his arms crossed above his belly, his legs stretched out, crossed as well, and his head had lolled; he appeared fast asleep. "You called my mother from the grave where you are buried on the hill. You've been trying to help us, Anne, sending your spirit through the glom, and we want to help you. You are my mother's fylgja. I must bring you to her."

Anne stared at Freya, furrowing her brow. "I do not know what you are speaking of. Please tell John about the sick pig - the skinny one - he needs to be fed milk and grain. He came earlier with my cap. Where is he? John!" She seemed delirious. "I do not wish to go anywhere with you."

Freya looked at Killian, who shrugged. "Anne, you must listen to us. Please, or you'll die here."

"Then that is my fate. Leave me be," Anne said, closing her eyes, falling asleep against the bars.

Chapter fifty-seven

Earth Angel

Anne had fallen asleep, holding on to the bars, one hand slowly slipping down.

"We have no choice," said Killian. "We've got to take her with us, even if she doesn't want to go. They're going to hang her this afternoon."

"So what do we do?" asked Freya, peering into her lover's eyes that sparkled in the darkness, reflecting the torchlight above the guard.

Killian instructed Freya to place a hand around Anne's left wrist. He took Freya's free hand, then Anne's right that had fallen outside the bars as her body slumped. They were all connected. "Hold on tight!" he said with a wink.

"Oh, no, not again!" said Freya, squeezing her eyes shut to brace herself for the pain.

This time Freya did not fall asleep, moving through the time-line was much quicker and smoother, more like a jump cut in a French new wave film, like the scene from Breathless in which Jean Seberg's movements are spliced as she rides along in the convertible - the tiniest moment missing from one to the next. They were here in one position, then there in another, all three huddled together on the sand, Joanna and Norman rushing at them. Freya felt sapped from the experience. Killian's face looked paler, and a droplet of blood dribbled from his nostril, which Freya reached over and wiped, while they both held Anne, limp between them. It was early evening now, and the sky was a band of gray, then pink along sea.

"She needs food and water immediately," said Killian. "Or more like an IV bag."

"Yeah, I have one in my briefcase in the house," said Norman - an attempt at humor. "I'm so glad you're back." He grabbed them all in a bear hug, and Joanna came to kneel beside her daughter, caressing her head, kissing it.

"We need to get Anne inside," Freya said.

"Anne ... how lovely. My fylgja." Joanna had tears in her eyes.

"Goody Anne Barklay," Freya said.