Page 105 of The Sun He Buried

Chapter Eleven

Ketill gives me nine steps before he starts.

“What the hell was that?”

Nine may be a record.

I keep walking.

Solveih’s humiliation follows me through the hall. The metal over my face catches the servants, the clerks, Baldr’s anger behind us.

She reaches the west stairs.

Her grief tightens.

Then the guest-room door shuts between us.

“Breakfast,” I tell him. “People eat it most mornings.”

Ketill catches my study door before it closes.

“People generally manage without making a human cry.”

“You’ve had very gentle breakfasts.”

He follows me inside and shuts the door with care. That means he wants to hit me.

Ketill has never needed much encouragement.

The metal holds the rest to a murmur.

Annoyance below us. Concern from the kitchens. Six mine clerks trying to stay awake. Baldr coming after me until Asta says something that stops him near the dining room.

Ketill’s walls disappear.

There.

Disgust. Anger. Concern he has no intention of making easier for either of us.

Last night’s cup sits by the ledger.

“If you’re going to shout, do it quickly. Halla has three reserve books waiting to disappoint you.”

“I don’t need to shout.”

“Then this should be brief.”

He plants both hands on my desk. The burn scars across his knuckles pale under the pressure.

“She opened the wrong door.”

I reach for last night’s cup. “Yes.”

He leans in. “She froze.”

I drink what’s left of it, cold. “For some time.”

Ketill stares at me.