Page 209 of The Sun He Buried

The concern remains visible until the stone takes him.

I return to my study.

Baldr’s hurt moves down the west stairs. He walks without speaking to anyone. Solveih is somewhere near the kitchens with Asta. Her headache has eased. Her certainty from my room remains.

Two people trusted me before breakfast.

I dealt with one.

The study door doesn’t latch behind me. I leave it that way because turning around requires interest I no longer possess.

The eastern ledger waits on the desk.

Eight bars.

Still missing.

A problem I can count.

I sit.

Snowpetal pushes through the open door.

She arrives with empty jaws. Every other visit brings stolen meat, a ribbon, a piece of my furniture. This one brings nothing.

An alarming decline.

The Sanguir crosses the rug and jumps onto the bench beside my chair. One white paw lands on my thigh. Then the second.

She climbs into the space against my side, turns once, and settles.

Her horns rest beneath my hand.

The only natural predator my kind ever feared puts her throat against my wrist and closes her eyes.

Her purr begins.

I don’t move her.

Chapter Twenty-One

Snowpetal cleared at least three tables at the feast without trying.

I’ve decided that’s my fault.

Not the clearing—she’s good at that, and the men had it coming for singing over the trout verse.

The tail.

The tail is my fault. She was born with a war-club on the end of her, spikes and all, and I keep walking her through a crowded hall and looking surprised when the cups flee.

So. Wool.

The hook Asta packed, because Asta packs everything. A ball of white—thick and soft, warm just to hold—about to become a hat for a weapon.

Snowpetal watches from a safe distance. She already knows this is about her.

“It is,” I tell her.