Page 129 of The Sun He Buried

I turn.

“What does that mean?”

“My brother throws a temper, and you follow. It saves him the trouble of asking.”

My face gets hot.

“He is upset.”

His brow lifts, unbothered. “A rare condition. You should hurry.”

“You were the one who upset him.”

“Then perhaps you should thank me. He enjoys being comforted.”

Asta’s fingers close around the edge of my cloak on the bench.

I look at the passage again.

Baldr held me while I cried after breakfast. He never asked me to explain the tears before deciding they mattered. Now he’s somewhere near the stables, angry and wet, fixing a roof because he doesn’t know what else to do.

I’m going after him because I want to.

Eirik knows that.

The map folds again beneath his fingers.

“You’re a horrible man,” I say.

“Breakfast covered this.”

The outer doors open.

Wind throws snow halfway across the floor. Two guards stumble inside carrying a wooden chest between them.

Snowpetal walks in behind them.

She’s covered from nose to club-tail. Little clumps of snow hang beneath her belly and between her horns. She stops just inside the doors, shakes once, and coats every boot nearby.

Then she sees me.

Her purr starts.

“There you are.”

Snowpetal trots across the hall and rubs her wet side against my ankle.

Eirik looks down at the white streak she leaves on the stone. “Take your mutt with you.”

I stop.

Snowpetal sits on my boot.

“Snowpetal’s not a mutt.”

“She’s wet, destructive, and refuses basic—“

“You haven’t once said her name.”