It was only the three of them, but they made up for it by asking what felt like a hundred questions each. My brain was still foggy, and they didn’t seem to care that they didn’t get any answers before asking their next questions. I have no idea who asked which questions, so I’m just going to present them as a blob.

  “Where on Midgard did you learn how to do that? How did you lose your hand? Did you have to build it one-handed? Did you have help? Why those materials? How does it work? Does it do anything special? Can you feel anything with it? Why is it a left hand? How far up your arm does it go? (The sleeve of my jacket still came down to the very bottom of my wrist) Does it detach? Have you made any others? How long did this take you? Do you have to repair it? How long have you had it? Do you like it?”

  I think the list went on – I don’t fully remember. It was dizzying, overwhelming, and a little bit terrifying, but more than that it was affirming and heartwarming. I’d never thought of this hand as something to show off, or that people would be impressed with, but here I was. I recognised even then that these people were a bit weird – you’d have to be, to willingly enter a place like this – but maybe, I figured, they could be my kind of weird.

  When the questions mercifully trailed off, I had a panel of expectant faces in front of me. “Guys,” I started quietly, using the back of my left sleeve to wipe tears and snot off my face, “I didn’t catch any of that.” My face cracked into a weak, rueful, but nevertheless genuine smile. “Can you go one at a time please?” There were various dramatic sighs and eye-rolls, but Nalfis took the podium first.

  “I think, you bizarre, outlandish, wonderful creature, that we hoped you might explain something of that unique, magnificent hand of yours.” My entire face flushed as I ducked away from any eye contact. You have to understand that my upbringing was not rich in praise, and the things I was praised for were things I didn’t want to do – good manners, polite conversation, looking ‘pretty’. To get any sort of positive feedback about something that was so definitively ‘me’ was an alien and awkward and amazing feeling. I didn’t know what to do with it though, so I just sat there looking and feeling like an idiot. “What do you want to know?” I mumbled, sheepishly.

  Yuck. I’m never sheepish. This whole ordeal was upending my whole spunky, Loki-may-care, adventurous vibe and I couldn’t do much about it. Being in touch with your feelings is cool (and it’s even cooler when there are people who support you with them), but having a huge panic attack followed by a crying fit followed by visible embarrassment doesn’t help you look cool. Anyway.

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  “How and where did you learn to build it?” Alf asked, speaking quickly to get his question in first. He wasn’t the only one to have that idea though.

  “Why is it made from those materials?” Nalfis rushed out.

  “Why is it a left hand?” Tove chorused. I blinked vacantly at them.

  “Um, how about I just give the key points?” I answered. “No offence, but I’m not really up to answering everything right now, and some is a bit personal.” They nodded, and I went to start. But first: “Um, Tove?” I said. She looked at me with her deep green eyes, which had been so full of warmth for me that I almost felt bad to ask my question. “Could you possibly let go of my arm for a bit?” She looked down at her own lap in surprise, ‘eep’-ing adorably as she realised that she’d been cradling my hand this whole time like a small animal. She released it in an instant, and even though I couldn’t physically sense anything through it, I still immediately missed the feeling.

  The other two chuckled at her expense while I took hold of my right wrist with my left hand, and closed my eyes. I let my magic and soul be drawn back into my upper arm, depowering and disengaging the glyphs that kept the prosthetic magically fused to flesh. “This might look a bit weird,” I whispered, twisting the wrist until I felt the pegs slip out of their grooves, and then giving the whole thing a gentle tug. The nub of my forearm slid out from the housing, and the prosthetic came out of the sleeve. Unsurprisingly, being made of solid oak except for the metal parts, it is quite heavy, and as I opened my eyes again, I set it down on the table with a solid thunk.

  “You were right,” said Alf, “that was a bit weird.” Tove cuffed him on the back of his head. “Ow.”

  “Do you want them to explain or not?” she chastised him, to which he just held up his hands in mock surrender. I decided to take that as my cue. “Well, um. That’s my hand.” Top start. “It goes about halfway up my forearm, it’s made out of oak and brass, and it works by tricking my body into letting the soul into it, so my brain thinks it’s real. It can’t feel anything though.” I struggled to think what else to add. “Oh. And, um, it detaches from my arm.” I was still getting looks, so I rushed out a clarification. “Only if I let it though. It won’t, like, fall off.” There was a further moment of silence.

  “Indy,” Nalfis said, “I think we might need to work on your public speaking.”

  “What was wrong with that?”

  “Well I wouldn’t say anything was wrong, merely…”

  “That you told us absolutely nothing.” Alf finished for him. Had they not listened to a word I’d just said? I thought it was pretty clear.

  Sammy xx