Page 156 of The Sun He Buried

She starts fastening the back.

Snowpetal jumps from the bed to the windowsill and pushes her nose against the shutter.

“She wants outside,” I say.

“She had outside. She came back with your stocking.”

“That doesn’t tell us where she got it.”

Asta stops at the fifth fastening.

We both look at Snowpetal.

She licks the shutter.

No answer there.

Asta finishes the dress and reaches for the brush. I sit at the little table beneath the window while she works through the knots in my hair.

She gets through the first one.

I make a small noise.

“Hold still.”

“You pulled.”

I look at her in the mirror.

Asta’s face stays perfectly composed.

“You’re unkind in the morning.”

“I have been awake longer.”

“That should have improved you.”

Snowpetal wedges one paw into the gap beside the shutter and pulls.

The wood opens an inch.

Wind throws snow through it.

I jump up.

Asta catches the brush before it falls, closes the shutter, and looks at the white patch melting across the floor.

Snowpetal purrs.

“Menace,” Asta tells her.

Snowpetal jumps down, steals the loose ribbon from the table, and runs through the open door.

“She has your ribbon,” I say.

“She’s made her choice.”

“You’re not going after her?”