Page 195 of The Sun He Buried

The Skorvær version keeps it.

I know the words. My mouth doesn’t want them.

Pathetic.

The fire grows too hot. Smoke reaches my eyes.

That’s why they sting.

I put the horn to my mouth. Empty.

The singer reaches the line where the ship goes under. My chest pulls tight.

No. Not here.

I set the horn on the nearest table, miss the edge, and catch it before it hits the floor.

The doors are beyond the hearth and I walk toward them.

The hall tilts once. A bench catches my thigh and sends me sideways. I put both hands on the table until the floor returns to its duties. Nobody stops me.

Good.

The outer doors fight back. I get one open far enough to slip through and close it with my bottom.

Music disappears. The storm takes everything else.

Snow turns through the yard under a sky I can’t see. Wind catches my skirt and fills it. The cold reaches my face, throat, and the wet places under my eyes.

Better.

I take three steps. The third step has no ground beneath it.

I land on my back, and snow closes around both shoulders. For a minute, I consider getting up.

No. The view is too good.

Clouds tear above the pines in dark strips. Snow races between them, white against black, then drops toward me in slow pieces once it passes the roofline.

One lands on my mouth. I eat it.

Not much flavor.

Another reaches my eyelashes. I leave it there.

The door opens. Warm light spreads across the snow, then disappears when the door shuts. Boots come toward me.

Large boots.

Baldr’s face appears over the sky.

“Sól.”

“Hello.”

He crouches and puts one hand beneath my shoulder. “Get up.”

“No.”