Free A Bone to Pick by Gina McMurchy-Barber Page A

open his eyes. He smiles and yawns, not a care on his mind.
    â€œBut who? Who did this?” sobs Gudrid as she buries her face in Snorri’s neck.
    â€œIt was Frigga who saved him,” Sigrid announces. “I prayed to her and she has saved Snorri. She saved him from the beasts and the savages. Thank you, Frigga.” Sigrid falls to the forest floor in a heap of relief.
    A moment later Snorri lifts his sleepy head. That is when they notice for the first time the streak of red paint that reaches from his forehead to his chin. He smiles again and opens his chubby little hand, revealing a small, carved charm.
    Gudrid gasps. “What does this mean?” she whispers.
    In the following weeks no one speaks of the ordeal, and Sigrid is a perfect helpmate to her aunt. Not once does she argue or shirk her duties. Never does she begrudge caring for Snorri, nor take her eyes off him when they are outside the home. And not for a moment does Sigrid forget the dreadful promise she made to Frigga, but she is no longer certain that it was the goddess who saved the boy.
    I burst into the kitchen, half expecting Bertha to be standing there ready to chuck tomatoes at me. Miraculously, she wasn’t around. I hit the floor running.
    â€œBiscuits, biscuits. What’s in biscuits?” I asked out loud. Flour! I ran to the pantry and hauled out the bag of flour. “How much?” After a nanosecond, I decided ten cups would do. “Okay, what next? Water.”
    Taking the large metal mixing bowl over to the sink, I turned on the tap and let the water run until it looked about right — not that I knew what looked right. “Okay, what now? Stir it, you idjut,” I said, hearing Bertha in my mind. I grabbed the nearest spoon and started mixing the flour and water. A recipe might have been helpful, but I kind of remembered Great-Aunt Beatrix teaching me once to make baking powder biscuits. “Ah, right … baking powder,” I said. “But how much?” I took the new box of baking powder off the shelf. It was only a small box — hopefully it was enough.
    After dumping it all in, I continued mixing. Then I got the idea to shred some cheese to add flavour. Aunt Margaret did that sometimes. I knew it would be only minutes before Bertha burst through the door. “Oven! Turn on the oven, Peggy.” I flipped the dial to three hundred and fifty degrees. Then thought better and turned it to four hundred and fifty. Then I suddenly remembered the chili I’d burned at home and turned it back to three hundred and fifty.
    While the oven got hot I buttered a few baking sheets and then plopped scoops of the biscuit mixture onto them. They weren’t uniform in size, but what the heck — it would give people a choice of small, medium, or large.
    Miraculously, I slid the sheets into the oven just as Bertha came through the door. That was close.
    â€œWell, good. There’s me tinking I’d arrive and ya wouldn’t be here.” She peeked through the oven door. “They’re not very attractive, girl, but never mind. Looks aren’t everything.” She put on her apron and washed her hands. “Okay, don’t be standin’ with yer gob open like an idjut. Go and set the tables. Go on. I’ll watch over yer biscuits and won’t let them burn.”
    Ten minutes later people began filling the dining hall. When the timer sounded, I went to the oven and took out my biscuits. Whoa — every one of them was the size of an extra-big muffin. Maybe that just meant they were extra-fluffy. I set the first batch next to Bertha’s stew. Her eyes widened at the sight of them. When I took out the second sheet, I decided to try one. I chomped down, but it was so tough and chewy my teeth couldn’t even tear through it. Then came a funny, bitter taste. Yuck!
    â€œC’mon, Princess, bring them here. We’re running out of the first batch.” I chucked the one