The girl's body was in such a state that her mother was not let to see her until the old woman had sewn her back together with horsehair. Sif stood in the corner of the room, still drenched in blood, watching as the village women worked industriously, bringing out dried flowers and cutting a bolt of cloth to sew into a burial shroud.

As she directed the girl's mother to come in, the old woman spoke to Sif.

" Lady Hélna, your face speaks of grief," she said. " But it is not your fault that this girl died. You avenged her by slaying the bear. Come help us plait her hair."

Sif had never learned to braid, much less in the complex way the women were currently doing, since he always wore his hair loose. The old woman noticed, and quietly redirected him to sticking the dried flowers and leaves through the girl's hair.

" This girl was saved as an infant from the flood," the old woman said, " and look upon how much joy she has had in her life. Let us not dwell on its ending."

The girl's mother was crying, still, her hands unsteady as she worked, and Sif felt very sorry for her, the guilt weighing him like a stone.

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