Page 147 of The Sun He Buried

Damn him.

Then her want turns over and goes somewhere else, and I understand what she’s doing a full second before I’d like to.

The bottle is empty by the time I finish understanding it.

I look at it.

Ketill overpaid.

Another bottle waits behind the first. Younger. Stronger. Less burdened by sentimental promises.

I break the seal with my thumb.

She’s nervous.

That’s the part I’d take out of her if I could reach it. Under all that wanting she’s afraid she’ll be bad at it—small and stupid and entirely hers, and my brother will never know it was there.

I drink.

Then it’s gone.

She’s pleased with herself.

I drink again.

The room fails to improve.

Then it breaks, and it isn’t hers—she’s only holding it—and my hand closes around the neck of the bottle hard enough to crack the glass.

I put it down before it goes completely. Blood runs across my palm.

Mine.

Good.

It closes before I reach the study door.

I take the cracked bottle with me.

The hall has emptied by half. Storm crews carry the last supplies inside while everyone else moves toward food, fire, and whatever poor choices keep a long winter night from feeling endless.

Ketill stands near the hearth speaking to Asta.

She has one of the rope lists in her hand. He has no business smiling at it.

Neither sees me leave through the side passage.

That lasts until the outer door opens.

Ketill’s attention strikes my back.

I close the door behind me and give him the storm to argue with.

Snow hits the mask. Wind catches my coat and pulls it open before I reach the bottom step.

The cold does more than the drink.

Not enough.