They told her there were no wrong questions in Løvlund. Only unspoken desires.
Astrid sat at the long pine table in the Widow Åse's kitchen that evening, her hair still damp from the sea, her robe tied loose, a raw peach bleeding its juice into her hand. The window was open. The wind smelled of moss and distant bonfire smoke.
Åse sliced cured salmon paper-thin while speaking softly:"Tonight is the Half-Moon. A good night to ask for what you want. Just one thing. One soul."
Astrid swallowed. "Do I have to know what I want?"
"No," Åse said. "But your body does. And here, we trust the body more than the mind."
The village green glowed with lanterns as the sun dipped low, its last light streaking the fjord in gold. One by one, bodies gathered — robed, then slowly shedding. Laughter drifted like music. Bare feet padded on warm grass.
Astrid stood at the edge.
She wasn't shy anymore. But something inside her — something deeper than nerves — trembled with intent.
Ida found her first, a crown of wildflowers in her curls. She kissed Astrid's shoulder. "You don't have to speak it aloud. Just walk toward them."
"How will they know I'm asking?"
"They'll know."
Astrid scanned the meadow.
Kari and Emil kissed openly on a blanket, their limbs lazily entwined. Åse sat beneath an oak, her breasts long and proud, watching everyone with the calm of someone who had seen hundreds of asks.
Leif wasn't there.
But Ida was.
And Mattis — sitting by the fire with his wife, arms around her, his eyes soft. The same man who'd once whispered, "My love doesn't shrink if I share it."
Astrid moved.
She crossed the grass slowly, every step conscious.
Every glance was a question.
She walked past Emil. Past the bonfire. Past Leif, who had just arrived and smiled gently as their eyes met.
Then, finally, she stopped.
In front of Mattis.
And his wife — Linna.
They looked up, both still, like animals scenting change.
Astrid knelt before them, resting her hands on her thighs, heart pounding.
Linna was the first to speak.
"Are you asking?"
Astrid's lips parted. But nothing came.
She nodded instead.
Mattis glanced at Linna, and Linna's gaze did not falter.
She reached out, brushed Astrid's cheek with the back of her hand.
Then said simply, "Then come."
They walked together — the three of them — across the meadow to a tucked-away boathouse where a bed of old furs had been laid by some unnamed villager.
It wasn't a secret place. There were no secrets in Løvlund. But it was private enough for an ask to be answered without words.
Mattis undressed first.
He was not young. But he moved with strength and reverence, every action measured. His body bore the softness of years and the sinew of work — and Astrid found herself aching for the weight of him, not just on her skin, but in her mind.
Linna helped Astrid from her robe, cupping her breasts as though reacquainting a goddess with her temple. Her kiss was soft. Experienced. Female in the way only a woman who had kissed thousands of times could be.
Mattis knelt between them.
His hands didn't search. They listened.
And when he lowered his head to Astrid's chest, his mouth open against her nipple, it was not to suck — it was to breathe her in. She gasped.
Linna kissed her neck.
Astrid melted.
The three of them became heat. Sound. Rhythm.
Astrid laid back onto Linna's lap, thighs spread wide, Mattis's hands under her knees, lifting her gently. He entered her slowly, with such stillness, she didn't feel penetration — only presence.
Her body opened, not like a door — but like a shoreline, rising to meet him.
She cried out, her head falling back, Linna's lips finding hers. Their tongues met like flames meeting oil.
Mattis groaned.
Linna moaned.
Astrid broke — not from the thrusting (it was slow, reverent), but from the joining. The rightness.
The sacredness of three people who knew their own skin so deeply they could offer it without shame.
Later, Astrid lay between them, body limp, cheek on Mattis's chest, Linna's fingers trailing idle shapes down her stomach.
"Did you get what you asked for?" Linna whispered.
Astrid couldn't speak. She nodded into Mattis's warmth.
"Then tomorrow," Mattis said, lips against her crown, "you must learn how to ask for yourself."
Astrid furrowed her brow.
"This was asking with us," Linna said. "But next time, you'll ask within. You'll take."
Astrid blinked, her breath catching again — not from fear.
From power.
And somewhere beyond the boathouse walls, the fjord lapped slowly against the shore. Remembering.