Page 108 of The Sun He Buried

“What did you expect her to do?” he asks.

“Leave.”

“Myrkviðr?”

“Preferably.”

“You stopped the release that brought them here.”

“The reserve is short.”

“You had the west rooms heated before the carriage reached the gate.”

“They’re guest rooms. Their function is narrow.” My thumb taps the desk.

“And the hot water?”

“They smelled of the road.”

Ketill’s amusement appears inside the anger. Unwelcome and very brief.

“There he is.”

“Who?”

“No one.”

He knows better than to say whatever came next.

Upstairs, Solveih tries to stop crying.

It lasts two breaths.

The third breaks worse.

I reach for last night’s cup. Empty.

“I was drunk.”

Ketill looks at the cup.

“You were drunk when you put Thora on the desk. You were sober when you used her to shame Solveih.”

“Thank you. I had misplaced the sequence.”

“Why?”

“You’ve asked.”

“You’ve avoided.”

“Another talent.”

His mouth flattens.

I rub two fingers against my temple. The feeding took the edge off for less than an hour. Thora’s grief settled inside me, heavy and dull, while Solveih’s pleasure in Baldr’s bed kept coming through bright enough to make thought useless.

Then Solveih found me.