Page 232 of The Sun He Buried

Guilt cuts through the bond from both directions.

I lift her down off the table. Her legs fail when her feet touch the floor.

I catch her.

“I can stand.”

“An inspiring claim.”

“Give me a second.”

I give her three.

She remains against me.

My coat lies near the mask. I take it, spread it over the floor, and bring her down with me.

She sits between my legs with her back against my chest. I clean her thigh with the inside of my shirt and help her back into what’s left of her dress.

“The broken one?” she asks.

“Asta will enjoy the mystery.”

“Asta doesn’t enjoy mysteries.”

“Then confess.”

Solveih closes her eyes.

The guilt deepens.

“Baldr’s awake.”

“Yes.”

“Does he know?”

“He knows enough.”

“He hasn’t learned about tonight.”

Her fingers close around my wrist.

“I did this to him.”

“We did.”

She turns her face toward me. “That doesn’t make it better.”

“I have exhausted my supply of better.”

The last wind moves past the northern opening.

After that, snow falls from the branches without striking the wall.

By morning the ridge watch will have the markers clear, and every question I’ve been holding off comes due—the treaty, Baldr, what’s to be done with a human girl who chose the one Dróttin she was never meant to want. I don’t have the answers tonight. For once I don’t reach for them. She chose me. Whatever the morning asks, it asks it of both of us now.

I should reach for the silver.