Page 198 of The Sun He Buried

“You know what I mean.”

“A dangerous assumption.”

“Your home is beautiful, Eirik.”

His next breath doesn’t leave for several seconds. I watch the snow gather along the edge of his mask.

He turns his head toward me. His hand rises.

Bare fingers move one wet curl from my cheek and tuck it behind my ear. They stay there for one breath.

Then he sits up.

“Roll over.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve accepted that you intend to freeze out here, and I’d prefer you do it on wool.”

He takes off the black coat. Under it, he wears a dark shirt with the sleeves fastened at the wrists. Snow catches in his braids when he spreads the coat over the drift.

“On it.”

I roll. My left arm gets trapped beneath me. One knee catches in my skirt. I free the arm, lose the knee, and turn too far until Eirik’s hand closes around my shoulder. He stops me before my face reaches the snow.

One small crease appears beside his pale-green eye. Then he looks back at the storm.

He gets me onto the coat. The wool scratches my cheek.

It’s warm from him.

I put both hands beneath my face and look up. Eirik lies down again beside the coat.

No coat. In a storm.

“You’ll freeze.”

“I’m Skorvær.”

“Baldr said that about you.”

His eyes close.

“He remains a well of useful observations.”

Snowpetal appears over his shoulder. No door. No footsteps. One white head rises from the drift, covered in snow and carrying a strip of somebody’s tablecloth.

“There you are.”

She drops the cloth, steps onto Eirik’s stomach, and walks across him. He looks down at the white paws.

Snowpetal reaches me, turns twice on the coat, and falls against my side. Her purr starts beneath my ribs.

For a little while, the three of us watch the storm.

My eyes keep closing. I open them.

“How much did you drink?” Eirik asks.