I first heard the story of Agnes Magnusdottir when I was an exchange student in the north of Iceland.

I have made a mistake. They condemn me to death and I ask for a boy to coach me for it. A red-headed boy, who gobbles his buttered bread and toddles to his horse with the seat of his pants wet, this is the young man they hope will get me on my knees, full of prayer. This is the young man I hope will be able to help me, although with what and how I cannot think.

It’s not fair. People claim to know you through the things you’ve done, and not by sitting down and listening to you speak for yourself.

The treachery of a friend is worse than that of a foe.

Cruel birds, ravens, but wise. And creatures should be loved for their wisdom if they cannot be loved for kindness.

As though prayer could simply pluck sin out. But any woman knows that a thread, once woven, is fixed in place; the only way to smooth a mistake is to let it all unravel.

To know what a person has done, and to know who a person is, are very different things.