She trailed her pink fingers along the flat marble rim. She stared at the steeple of water rising from the brimming basin, four feet, five feet, almost as tall as she was, rising and falling back, plashing and bubbling. ‘A fountain,’ Snorri told her. Solveig’s face shone. ‘I’ve never seen one before. Not indoors. Does a spring rise right under this hall, then?’ Snorri closed his eyes, as if he’d never met anyone who knew so little. ‘Of course not. The builder used machines. A contraption.’ ‘How?’ ‘At great expense, I’d say. Our Empress has more wealth than she knows what to do with.’ ‘It looks like a water-tree,’ Solveig said, ‘and it sounds like a water-harp.’ ‘I’m the wordsmith,’ said Snorri. ‘Near our farm …’ ‘Where?’ ‘In Iceland.’ ‘You come from Iceland?’ ‘I just said so. Near our farm, there’s a boiling fountain as high as the dome of Hagia Sophia. Well, half as high. A geyser, we call it.’ ‘Geyser. Is that made with machines and contraptions too?’ Snorri gave a scornful laugh.
