Page 151 of The Sun He Buried

The guards move.

I don’t dismiss them. They leave anyway.

The woman collects my gloves and coat from the fence. She offers both to Ketill.

He takes them.

Then the bottle is out of my hand. My fingers close on nothing. Ketill’s already turning, and he puts it in her arms.

“Inside,” he tells her.

She tucks the bottle beneath one arm and follows the others.

The thief.

The last lantern goes with them. Light from the path reaches the clearing in narrow bands. Snow fills the places between.

Ketill drops my coat over the fence.

His walls come down.

Concern hits first. Anger behind it. Disgust with my choices. Loyalty beneath both, fixed and immovable and open.

“You’re drunk.”

“You’ve become very observant today.”

“Your hand is bleeding.”

I look at it. The blood has already stopped.

“A difficult recovery.”

Ketill steps into the circle. “Put your coat on.”

“No.”

“Then put your hands up.”

There he is.

I raise them.

Ketill doesn’t.

“You wanted to hit me after breakfast,” I remind him.

“Breakfast was days ago.”

“Your anger has admirable stamina.”

“So does your stupidity.”

I strike him.

He turns enough that my fist catches the side of his mouth instead of his nose. His head snaps back. Blood appears on his lower lip.

Ketill touches it with his thumb.