Page 31 of The Sun He Buried

“Well?” I turn toward Baldr.

He studies me. Both eyes warm.

“That one.”

“I already said that.”

“You were right.”

“I usually am.”

The merchant coughs.

“Often,” I correct.

He checks the shoulders, marks two small places for the clasp, and tells me he can have it ready by tomorrow evening. I reach for my purse.

Baldr reaches for his.

I put my hand on his wrist. “No.”

“I invited you.”

“To the market.”

He keeps the purse out. “To Myrkviðr.”

“Your brother invited you.”

“He demanded I appear.”

I gesture toward the cloak. “Then he should buy the cloak.”

Baldr looks down at me.

I hold out my hand. “Give me the letter. I’ll write back.”

“He’ll send a thinner one.”

“Then I’ll make him feel guilty.”

“You haven’t met Eirik.”

“Does guilt not work?”

“I’m not convinced he owns any.”

I lower my voice. “I can buy my own clothes.”

Baldr’s fingers stop inside his purse.

He looks at me, then closes it.

“All right.”

That’s it.

No argument. No teasing until I give in. He lets me pay, and my cheeks get warm beneath the hood.