Page 233 of The Sun He Buried

I leave it beside the wall.

Solveih rests against my chest, listening to everything I’ve never let anyone hear.

I give her one minute.

Then another.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The sky clears while I’m sleeping.

Blue morning fills the gap between the shutters. I stare at it from my own bed, under my own blanket, in the dress I wore upstairs last night.

The fastening at my hip is broken.

Oh.

Then last night comes back all at once—his mouth, his hands, the bare black lines under my palms where the mask had been.

I choose you.

I choose the bond.

The old table striking stone, with Baldr awake in the west rooms while I came apart around his brother.

I remember every second.

Snowpetal is asleep across my feet. Her white belly points toward the ceiling. All four paws are folded against her chest, and one little fang rests outside her mouth.

I have no memory of leaving the watch room.

Eirik carried me back.

Again.

Without meaning to, I reach for that new place under my ribs. He’s there.

He’s awake.

Somewhere above the records room, a hard ache presses through the bond. I can’t tell which parts are his and which parts are mine yet. Last night I could. Last night everything came through at once—his fear right inside me, all of it, no wall anywhere to stop it.

This morning we have walls.

His are cracked.

Mine are apparently made of wet paper.

I lie still and breathe until Snowpetal’s tail knocks the bed frame.

The room stays quiet.

So does the passage beyond it.

I know what I’m going to do.

I wish I didn’t.

I sit up.