Page 30 of The Sun He Buried

The merchant bows to Baldr, then looks at me.

Baldr sets the basket beside his boot. “For travel.”

“North?”

“Myrkviðr.”

The merchant looks at my coat and makes the same face Asta made when I packed one pair of stockings for a six-day visit.

The merchant gives the front of my coat a short tug. “No.”

“I didn’t ask anything.”

“That coat won’t do.”

Baldr nods.

“Please don’t encourage him.”

They ignore me together.

The merchant pulls a dark-blue cloak from the rail. The wool is thick enough to stand by itself. Baldr takes it and drapes it around my shoulders.

It reaches the ground.

“I can’t walk in this.”

“That may improve your safety.”

I step on the hem.

Baldr catches me beneath both arms before I meet the cloak merchant’s floor.

Baldr keeps me upright. “Evidence.”

“You put the trap on me.”

The merchant removes the blue cloak and reaches for a brown one.

I see the purple behind it.

Deep purple. Nearly black where the wool folds, bright where the light reaches it. The hood is lined with soft grey fleece, and the clasp is a plain round piece of silver-colored metal. No embroidery. No jewels. Just good wool, good weight, and two deep pockets I could fit both hands into without losing them.

I touch the edge.

The merchant follows my hand. “That one was made for the north road.”

“I want this one.”

Baldr looks from me to the cloak. “You haven’t tried it.”

“I’ll still want it.”

The merchant lifts it from the rail.

The purple settles around me with the heavy warmth of two quilts. The hem stops above my boots. I pull the hood over my hair.

The market disappears at the edges.