Page 191 of The Sun He Buried

“She’s friendly,” I tell them.

Snowpetal’s tail club strikes a table leg. Every cup on the table jumps, and the three Skorvær move farther.

“Usually.”

I put down my horn and crawl beneath the bench. The woman catches the back of my skirt before I hit my head.

“Thank you.”

“You were going under there.”

“She has somebody’s sausage.”

“It was hers the instant she took it.”

Fair.

Snowpetal crouches beneath the table with the sausage pinned between both front paws. Her white horns shine in the firelight. She watches six pairs of Skorvær boots gather at a very respectful distance.

An entire hall full of emotion feeders, mine guards, smiths, and storm workers has faced multiple nights of weather without complaint. One small white animal has ended their courage.

I reach under the table and Snowpetal shows me the sausage.

“I see it.”

She puts one paw over my hand.

“You may keep it. I only want you.”

Snowpetal considers the difference. Then she leaves the sausage, crawls into my arms, and puts both wet front paws on my chest.

I back out and the bench catches my shoulders.

“Ow.”

Two people lift it before I try again. Neither comes closer than necessary.

“Thank you.”

I stand and kiss Snowpetal between the horns. She purrs. The men who lifted the bench step back together.

“You’re hurting her feelings.”

One looks at Snowpetal. Snowpetal opens her mouth, and he steps back again.

“She’ll recover,” the woman says.

I put Snowpetal on the floor. She collects the sausage and disappears beneath another table. Everyone on that side of the fire moves.

The lyre player begins a faster song. A drum joins from near the kitchens, then two pairs of hands against a tabletop. The benches shift farther from the fire, and somebody catches both my hands.

The man has blue eyes and a split through one eyebrow. I remember him from the scale yard. He carried seals to Ketill and didn’t laugh when I asked whether the wax had to be red. It didn’t. Ketill simply liked red.

“Do you know this one?” he asks.

“Probably.”

He pulls me into the open space. I know the first six steps.