“It’s threatening to snow again,” she announced, slamming the door behind her. The gust of wind set the lamplight flickering.

“It’s always threatening something,” the man replied, crouched over by the hearth, his hands stretched out over the smouldering wood.

She took off her furs and hung them on the wall. For a moment she stood there, eyes shut, head bowed. Then she looked up and turned.

“This time It could be serious,” she said, walking over to the table and picking up a knife.

He shrugged and asked, “What’s for dinner?”

She just looked at him, before replying, “What d’you think? Hard bread and the last of the salted pork.”

“That’s all?!” he shouted, looking over towards her. “How can a man survive on that?”

“Same as a woman,” she told him, shrugging. 

“A woman who can’t keep house?” He asked, sneeringly.

“A man who can’t put food on the table?” She replied. Then she sighed and said, “You know, we wouldn’t be in this mess if you hadn’t gone to that church and agreed to be baptized.”

“Yeah, well, I thought it was the smart thing to do at the time. Politically.” He turned back to the fire.

“Ah. Politics,” she said. “And did politics give us a good crop this year? Did it keep the cow healthy? Or supplied us with deer to hunt? Did the priests?”

He didn’t say anything, just continued looking into the flames.

“No. Neither politics nor anyone from that new church did anything for us. And so, here we are,” she told him, stepping softly across the room.

“So, what does It want from us this time? We’ve no more gold to offer, no pig to slaughter …  what other sacrifice can we make?” He asked.

“There is one more,” she said, coming up behind him with the knife.