Page 132 of The Sun He Buried

“In a storm.”

“You came out first.”

“I knew where I was going.”

“So did I.”

He looks at the door behind me.

The path outside is gone.

“Mostly.”

One of the stable hands takes a hammer from the floor. “The west brace is holding, Dróttin. We can finish the loft.”

Baldr tests the new beam with both hands. Nothing moves. “Secure the shutters, check every stall latch, then get inside the hall.”

The man looks toward the roof.

“It’ll hold,” Baldr says. “No one stays out here for timber.”

Everyone moves faster after that.

Snowpetal chases a length of rope across the aisle. A stable girl snatches it away before the end reaches her teeth.

“That’s not food,” I tell her.

Snowpetal jumps at the girl’s hands.

“Also not food.”

The girl holds the rope above her head and looks at me for help.

I catch Snowpetal around the middle. She turns boneless the instant I lift her, because every animal I meet enjoys making me look unreasonable.

Baldr takes his coat from the gate.

He doesn’t put it on. He comes to me and wraps it around my shoulders instead.

“I have a cloak.”

“Your cloak is wet.”

“Your coat will become wet too.”

“It’s survived worse.”

I push one arm through the sleeve. My hand doesn’t reach the end.

Baldr pulls the cuff back until my fingers appear. He does the other side, fastens the coat over my purple wool, and lifts the hood away from my face.

He’s still angry.

Not at me. A little at me. Enough that his jaw stays tight while his hands are gentle.

That’s worse.

“I wasn’t choosing his side.”