They lost Bragi—Harald lost him—in late spring, when the snow was mostly gone and meadows were livid with velvetbells, ogre-thistle, and mountain orchid.
Katrin had known since she was a little girl what her husband would look like, ever since she was old enough to understand that Aunt Gunna had deeded her farm to Katrin.
That morning, everywhere he drove he heard about the murder that wasn’t murder but business done by different name. “A dead incast in Pingree. Shot, tche.”