Page 29 of The Sun He Buried

His gaze drops to the sugar covering my coat.

“At decisions,” I add.

He smiles. “Asta will come.”

“You say that with great certainty.”

“Would she let me take you into the mountains without her?”

“No.”

“Would you go without her?”

“Also no.”

“Then Asta will come.”

Reasonable.

The wind pushes through the market and cuts straight through my coat. I pull the collar closed.

Baldr notices. “Myrkviðr is colder than Sólvik.”

“Well, everything is colder than home.” I glare out at the harbor. “Your sea is trying to kill us.”

“The forest blocks the wind.”

“See? It has the right idea.”

“It also keeps the snow.”

I look at my coat.

It was made for Gullither winters, where snow arrives, is admired from a window, and apologizes by noon.

Baldr takes the basket from my arm.

This time I let him.

“Good thing we’re already at the market.” He passes the folded letter to the guard. “You need a warmer cloak.”

“I own cloaks.”

“Warm ones?”

“They have sleeves.”

“Cloaks don’t have sleeves.”

“Then I own coats.”

“Warm ones?”

I put the remaining half of his pastry in my mouth.

He sighs.

The cloak merchant occupies the far end of the lowest terrace, close enough to the harbor that every garment hangs from two pegs. Heavy wool covers the front rail in blue, brown, grey, green, and red. Fur-lined hoods hang along the back wall.