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last, huh? She’s clever and takes advantage of situations.

She got hold of Snorri’s share in the ice-house for a bargain

two years ago, tossed him a pittance of a payment, he was

and is no man to make stipulations and was surely

overjoyed to get at least something out of it, while she

tightened the noose around the ruffian’s neck, and is likely

lying in wait now for his schooner, the Hope, if she hasn’t

already secured it; in her own opinion, adds Friðrik. Has

Tryggvi got his eye on Snorri’s company?, asks Jón; he has

to ask, has been ordered to ask. Friðrik looks at him,

smokes, the rain beats down on the house, it’s a June


It’s the very start of June, yet it’s still dusky between the

mountains. Gloomy weather. The wind picks up, the

saltfish stacks are tied down tightly. There’s hardly anyone

out and about in this tempest, despite the day beginning

beautifully, the sky full of sun and blue promises of calm

and comfort, birdsong audible far and wide, nothing to

hinder the transparent, motionless air. Flies buzzed over

flowers and grass, saltfish covered the spit, the drying lots,

much had turned green and beautiful in the mountains. In

the Village itself, all was astir, naturally; there were shouts

and cries and laughter and cursing and hands that moved.

Lúlli and Oddur were on a tear down in the hold of a ship,

its captain rode off with Geirþrúður; I could love this

country, he said. They rode up onto a heath, down into

another fjord and into an empty, grassy valley.