Page 100 of The Sun He Buried

By breakfast, I’ve counted every beam in the room and worked out that none is a duck.

Asta looks at me once and pushes the pot of coffee across the table.

“Thank you.”

“You look terrible.”

“I take it back.”

She pours for me anyway.

Baldr sits on my right, dressed for an argument in a dark coat with his hair tied back. Ketill is across from him, reading a page beside his plate. Snowpetal has been given a raw piece of venison on the floor between my chair and Asta’s.

The head chair is empty.

Again.

Morning light pours through the windows. The snow is bright beneath a clear sky.

Still no storm.

I wrap both hands around the coffee.

Baldr touches my knee under the table. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Some.”

Asta looks at me.

“Very little.”

“The room was cold?”

“No.” I turn the cup in my hands.

“The bed?”

“The bed was excellent.”

Ketill lowers the page.

Asta closes her eyes.

Baldr’s thumb moves against my knee. “You can go back upstairs after you eat.”

“I’m fine.”

The dining-room doors open.

Every servant in the room stops moving.

The man from the study walks in.

He’s fully dressed now. Black coat. Black gloves. The same silver mask covering everything below his eyes. The braids on top of his head disappear behind him, leaving the sides shaved clean.

His right eye is deep purple.

His left is pale green.