Warmth in her chest, bright behind her ribcage; it’s mostly from the alcohol but also partially not. It’s funny. She never expected to feel quite so relieved and grateful about a mutual dismemberment pact.

Astrid moves her glass over to her other fingers, spits into her right palm, and then holds it out expectantly to him.

“Thank you. You’ve a pact, mate,” she says, and there’s perhaps a little unexpected honour and weight and import laced laced into the words, considering her usual carefree manner. “I promise to cut off your head if I have to.”