Page 177 of The Sun He Buried

He corrects my elbow. My grip. The angle of my shoulders.

Each time, he comes closer.

“Your wrist,” he says.

“It’s firm.”

“It moved.”

“You were watching the knife.”

“I can manage both.”

I raise the knife again.

Eirik steps behind me.

My shoulders pull tight.

“Your stance is too narrow.”

His boot presses into the snow beside mine, showing the distance.

I move my foot.

“Your hips stay there.”

“Where?”

One hand stops beside my waist.

He doesn’t touch me.

The other hovers beneath my raised elbow.

“There.”

His chest is close behind my back.

Close enough that I can feel his warmth through the cloak when the wind drops.

“Bring the knife back.”

I do.

His fingers stay near my wrist.

Bare.

One inch away.

“Keep this still.”

His breath reaches the loose curl beside my ear.

I stop breathing.

The knife goes heavy in my hand.