Page 17 of The Sun He Buried

“Good decision.”

He cuts the corner piece and sets it on my plate.

Yes. Very good decision.

The window reflects the room now: fire, table, two people sitting close enough that their knees keep meeting.

There’s black ink along the side of his thumb. I noticed it when he broke the bread, though it took me this long to remember where else I saw ink today.

“Did you write to Myrkviðr?”

His gaze drops to his hand. “Before dinner.”

“About the silver?”

“I asked for another count at the mine.”

“Will they do it?”

“They’ll send a reply explaining why the original count was flawless and my question insulted them.”

“That sounds helpful.”

“They work hard at it.”

I pick one crumb from the cake. “What happens if the next shipment is light too?”

“We wait.”

“For how long?”

“Until Myrkviðr can replace it.” He puts the knife beside his plate. “Harbor repairs slow down. The smiths fill half their orders. A few projects wait for next season.”

“Which projects?”

He looks at me.

“You said a few.”

“The north mooring chain. Roof braces for two storehouses. Tools for the lower shipyard.”

He knows every item. None takes him time to remember.

“Can ordinary silver do any of it?”

“The chain, maybe. It won’t last through as many winters. The braces need vein-silver.”

“And Myrkviðr says the full shipment left.”

“Yes.”

“The seal was intact at the pass.”

“Yes.”

I break the last of my bread into three pieces.

Baldr watches my hands.