Page 124 of The Sun He Buried

The filling has escaped through one side, the top is stuck to the paper, and three seeds cling to my glove.

“I have another one,” I call.

Snowpetal dives headfirst into a bank and leaves only her tail outside.

The club swings twice.

Then it disappears too.

“She’s made her decision,” Asta says.

“She’s too young to make weather decisions.”

“You climbed a three-story granary at sixteen.”

“Two-story roof.”

“Inside.”

One of the guards at the door is laughing. He hides it poorly when I look at him.

“Leave the door open for her.”

He looks past me at the storm. “My lady, we need to close it.”

“Then open it when she asks.”

“How will she ask?”

Asta takes my elbow. “She’ll bite the wood.”

That’s fair.

The guard nods. “I will listen for biting.”

“Thank you.”

Asta pulls me inside.

The doors shut behind us, and the wind becomes a deep shove against the wood. Snow slides from my hood onto the floor. More falls from Asta’s braid when she twists it over one shoulder.

The great hall has become very busy since we left the market.

Servants latch the narrow shutters and carry extra wood to the central hearth. Guards cross the room with coils of rope, lanterns, and armfuls of heavy wool. A woman near the kitchens is counting jars into a cart while three children count with her and disagree about every number.

Nobody looks surprised.

Myrkviðr has done this before.

I turn toward the doors again.

“Sól.”

Baldr comes through the passage beside the dining room.

His coat is half fastened. Snow has melted across one shoulder, and his hair is loose around his face. The line between his brows deepens when he sees us.

“Where were you?”