Page 261 of The Sun He Buried

“You’ve received the information.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s more accurate.”

Behind me, Snowpetal complains about being moved.

“Sit down.”

“Nope.”

“Solveih.”

“Almost there.”

The bad ankle takes her weight and doesn’t enjoy it. I get all of that. I get the exact moment she decides it’s worth it anyway.

Then both arms come around my middle, her face goes into my back, and she squeezes hard enough to move the air out of me.

I keep hold of the washstand.

“This is a hug,” she says into my shirt.

“I’m aware.”

“You’re not doing it.”

“My hands are occupied.”

“With what?”

“The washstand.”

She squeezes harder. Her thumb hooks through my belt and stays there.

My face looks back at me out of the dark window: my brother’s bones, black brands, one purple eye, one pale green, and enough exposed damage to make the resemblance cruel.

Blonde curls at my shoulder. Two bandaged wrists across my stomach.

The glass offers nowhere useful to go.

“Are you going to hug me back?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

She doesn’t let go.

Snowpetal reaches my boot and starts climbing.

I put one hand over both of hers.

She makes a noise against my back.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”