Page 146 of The Sun He Buried

Myrkviðr knows what to do with weather.

I know what to do with mine.

The study has a door.

I shut it.

Solveih stays.

The mask dims the settlement to a low pressure behind my eyes.

It doesn’t touch her.

I open the cabinet beside the hearth and take out the oldest bottle.

Ketill gave it to me eighty years ago after a mine brace failed and buried him for half a day. He dug himself out, stole the rescue crew’s lunch, and complained that the bottle cost more than the brace.

I told him I’d save it for his funeral.

Plans change.

The first drink burns. The second reaches my stomach. Neither goes farther.

Solveih’s anger loosens.

Relief moves in beneath it.

Baldr found the correct words. He always does eventually.

I pour again.

Her laughter catches me with the cup at my mouth.

One small burst. Then another, warmer than the first.

No sound. There’s never any sound. I know her laugh from the feeling alone.

This one belongs to him.

Lovely.

I finish the cup and stop wasting time with it.

The bottle is easier.

Wind claws at the shutters. The release ledger sits open on my desk, eight missing bars waiting beneath a figure written by a man who has either made a mistake or expects me to believe he has.

I read the line.

Solveih wants my brother.

The figure remains eight.

I read it again.

Her desire deepens.

Not here.