Page 10 of The Sun He Buried

“The day’s young.”

I smile. Keeping a straight face around him has never gone well.

Baldr lets go of my hand and folds the parchment. “Put the silver in the locked store. Tell the smiths I’ll speak with them before supper. No changes to the harbor work until I know where the rest went.”

The steward bows. “Yes, Dróttin.”

He leaves with the box tucked close.

I look toward the arch after him. “Does that happen often?”

“Not often.” Baldr slides the folded message beneath the belt at his waist. “Too often lately.”

“And Myrkviðr says it sent the full amount?”

“It says many things.”

His hand tightens around the practice sword. I want to ask what Myrkviðr’s been saying, but the folded message at his belt has already handed him enough questions for one afternoon.

Then he looks at me again, and the line between his brows eases.

“I meant to ask you before training.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Then a steward found me, and after that three men decided I needed to be hit with wooden swords.”

“Did you?”

“Apparently.”

“You should choose kinder friends.”

“I have. They keep hitting me.”

Asta rises and tucks the household list under her arm. The cat circles her boots with the last of the bread in his mouth.

Baldr glances at her, then returns to me. His breathing has settled. Both eyes are on me now—gold and green, familiar enough that I know the tiny crease beside the green one appears only when he’s uncertain.

Baldr is uncertain.

About me.

I stop winding the yarn.

“Have dinner with me tonight.” His thumb rubs once over the practice sword’s grip. “Please.”

“We have dinner together most nights.”

“We eat in the same hall most nights.” He shifts the sword to his other hand. “I was thinking the west room. No court. No stewards unless we need them. Just us.”

The wind catches a loose piece of parchment from Asta’s list. She traps it against her skirt without taking her eyes off Baldr.

I stare at him.

He waits.

He could’ve made this sound easy. He could’ve assumed. The treaty put me in his hall, on his ground, close enough that half the court has already decided our future for us.

“Is this a dinner where Asta has to do alarming things to my hair?”

Asta folds the escaped page back into her list. “I don’t have to do anything. I choose excellence.”