The ribbon stayed tied.
Even when Astrid's skin glistened with salt and honey under moonlight.
Even when her back arched against damp moss as another woman's mouth traced her ribs like scripture.
Even when she forgot what silence felt like — because every moan now belonged to her.
Not stolen. Not silenced.
Claimed.
They took turns.
Not in possession, but in reverence.
A circle of women, bodies slick with ritual, moved like tide and breath. No names were spoken, yet nothing was anonymous. Each ribbon, each freckle, each gasp was known.
Astrid lay on her side, knees drawn up slightly, the red ribbon pressed against her lips as if it were a prayer she wasn't ready to utter. The woman beside her — soft brown hair, heavy breasts, a stomach that folded gently when she leaned forward — kissed the inside of Astrid's thigh without warning.
And then paused.
"Do you want?"
It was the question. The only one that mattered in Løvlund.
Astrid turned her face toward her.
And whispered, "Ja."
The woman's name was Brit. Astrid learned that later, not from lips, but from the way another woman whispered it in awe when Brit walked past the bakery the next morning.
But here, in the glade, names were irrelevant.
Touch was identity.
Brit's hands were slow, certain. She moved without rush, without need to be watched, without needing anything in return. She kissed Astrid's stomach, one kiss for each breath she'd forgotten to take since arriving in Løvlund.
Astrid wept once — quietly — when Brit kissed the inside of her left wrist, directly over the ribbon.
It felt like her skin said thank you.
When the ritual ended, women embraced like sisters. Some cried. Some kissed. A few walked off two by two, fingers laced like the final verse of a poem.
Astrid remained, curled near a root.
The Widow Åse found her and sat beside her, nude and utterly still.
"You remembered your ache," Åse said, gazing at the ribbon.
Astrid nodded.
Åse reached out and gently untied it.
Then kissed Astrid's wrist.
"Next time," she said, "you'll tie it somewhere else."
The next morning, Astrid woke to the sound of laughter outside her cottage.
She wrapped a shawl around her bare body and opened the door.
Kari and Emil were dancing in the rain — fully clothed, ironically — splashing each other with buckets of cold water. They stopped when they saw her, then waved.
Kari jogged up, panting. "You're glowing."
Astrid laughed. "I'm exhausted."
"Same thing here," Kari winked, "after a night with Brit."
Astrid's breath caught.
"She's…?"
Kari nodded. "She doesn't keep lovers. She blesses them. One at a time."
"Do you… ever want to keep anyone?" Astrid asked gently.
Kari shrugged, childlike. "Why cage the sea?"
Later, Astrid wandered back to the fjord.
There was a letter waiting for her in the windowsill — hand-delivered, sealed with wax the color of plum wine.
She recognized the handwriting.
Linna.
Inside, one sentence:
"I want to see where you tied the ribbon."
That night, Astrid sat naked in the sauna, steam curling up her calves, the room lit only by the orange glow of stones.
Linna entered without knocking.
She was wearing the ribbon.
Not on her wrist.
Not around her neck.
But tied loosely at her inner thigh — so loosely, Astrid could have tugged it free with her teeth.
She didn't.
Not yet.
Instead, she whispered:
"Do you want?"
And Linna smiled.
"Everywhere."