Page 213 of The Sun He Buried

I put one hand on Baldr’s wrist.

He turns his palm and catches my fingers.

His smile reaches me easily.

It doesn’t reach the other side of the table.

There, it becomes a weapon.

Eirik glances down at our hands.

The purple eye goes flat.

He asks the clerk about the western scale.

I’ve learned to watch him.

That’s also a problem.

The small crease beside his pale-green eye when Snowpetal climbs him. His shoulder pulling when he says the cruel thing and wishes he’d didn’t. The way his fingers close when I thank him. The second his breathing stops before he hides behind the silver again.

He gives none of those away now.

Still.

Too still.

Asta sits on my other side with packing lists spread in front of her. She’s read the same line six times.

Her eyes move from Baldr’s hand to my face.

I look at the list.

One winter cloak.

Two wool dresses.

Six pairs of stockings.

That’s too many stockings.

I’ve said this before. The argument no longer interests her.

Ketill taps the map.

“If the upper road holds, the lead wagon can take half the guards. The second waits for the lower path.”

“Three wagons,” I say.

Everyone looks at me.

This subject has numbers. Numbers don’t kiss anyone in front of their brother.

I point to the marks on the map. “One by the ridge. One on the lower road when it opens. The last stays until both arrivals are counted.”

Eirik follows my finger.

“The lower scale was buried.”