Page 264 of The Sun He Buried

For the first time in my life, failing to speak doesn’t leave me hidden.

There is a knock on the door and it opens.

Baldr stops inside it. He’s washed too.

The blood is gone from his hair and face. A clean bandage circles his left forearm. He changed into a dark shirt, though the cut in his coat remains on the shoulder of the arm carrying it.

His gaze goes from my hand over Solveih’s to our foreheads touching.

Salt and iron return to my tongue.

I stand and Solveih’s hand slips from my face.

Baldr looks at Snowpetal in her lap. The Sanguir watches him with one white eye.

“How’s she?”

“Offended,” Solveih says.

“I meant you.”

“Also offended.”

His smile lasts one breath.

Then he comes closer.

Solveih tries to rise.

Pain catches her ankle, and she settles back into the chair with a small curse.

Baldr’s hand starts toward her.

He stops it.

“You can help me,” she says.

“I know.”

He takes the chair opposite hers instead.

Snowpetal climbs down, limps across the rug, and puts both front paws on Baldr’s knee.

He lifts her carefully.

The predator who killed a Skorvær in front of us curls against his chest and purrs.

Baldr rests one broad hand around her bandaged leg.

“Traitor,” Solveih tells her.

Snowpetal kneads his shirt.

Nobody speaks after that.

Baldr looks at Solveih. His hurt remains open. He makes no attempt to spare either of us from it.

“The bond,” he says.