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these speak her wonderful

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When Sif is a child: knobby and coltish and young, she thinks the princess hates her for being a poor example of a lady-in-waiting. Princess Loki calls her names and tugs at her braids and steals her hairpins. She runs away from Sif, laughing, her fine, sharp features smug, her hair a tumbling mass of inky curls. Thor shrugs off his sister’s cruelties and invites Sif to train and to fight and to roll about in the dirt.

Sif decides quite firmly that she prefers the company of boys.

When Sif is not a child any longer: Princess Loki fits the sinuous curve of her body to Sif’s, her fingernails prick the small of Sif’s back, and her neck and the valley between her breasts smell sweetly of lotions and old parchment.

Sif finds ample cause to reconsider.