Page 161 of The Sun He Buried

The side door opens before we reach it.

A guard sees Eirik and moves out of the way, then sees me and starts to smile.

“You didn’t see him,” I tell him, and the smile falters—“no, no. Smile, please. It’s a good smile.”

His eyes light up, and he keeps it.

The kitchen is warm enough to hurt my face.

Four people are working around the long center table. One kneads bread. Two are filling covered trays. An older woman stands by the hearth with a wooden spoon and an expression that says Eirik has disappointed her before.

She looks at his wet shirt.

Then the blood.

Then me.

“Sit,” she tells him.

Eirik sits.

Oh.

Interesting.

The older woman points me toward a smaller hearth near the back wall. A pot of coffee rests beside it.

“Fresh cup is there.”

“Thank you.”

“Made it strong.”

She takes the spoon and leads the other three through the dining-room door with their trays.

Eirik watches her go. “Tyranny.”

“She seems nice.”

“You’d think so.”

I pour coffee into the cup. Steam reaches my nose, dark and bitter.

“Sugar?”

“No.”

“Milk?”

His eyes meet mine.

“That was a normal question.”

“Black.”

I carry it to the table.

Eirik pulls one wet glove from his coat and looks at it.