Page 170 of The Sun He Buried

Even Snowpetal stops scratching beneath the bed.

Baldr’s face opens again.

“Sól.”

“That was cruel.”

He sighs. “Yeah.”

“And stupid.”

“Also yes.”

I stand. He catches my fingers before I take the first step, his grip gentle.

“Please stay.”

I look down at our hands.

“I need to walk.”

“Inside.”

“I know.”

“Take the cloak.”

“I was going to.”

His thumb presses into my palm.

Then he lets go.

The purple cloak hangs beside the door connecting our rooms. I pull it over my nightdress and fasten the silver clasp.

Snowpetal backs out from beneath the bed with one of Baldr’s socks in her mouth.

He looks at her.

She runs into my room.

“That one’s yours,” I tell him.

Baldr rubs both hands over his face.

I leave him to it.

The hall is sleeping badly.

The storm has spent two nights pushing at Myrkviðr and still hasn’t grown tired. Wind drives against the roof. Snow rasps over the shutters. Every fire burns higher than usual, and every passage smells of damp wool.

I walk past the guest stairs, then the dining room.

The head chair waits in the dark.

I keep going.

I don’t want the scale yard, the study, or any door that might contain a woman, a desk, and a lesson in minding my own business.