Page 33 of The Sun He Buried

“Will he make me admire the scales?”

“He may make us admire Ketill.”

“Is Ketill impressive?”

“Ask Ketill.”

I laugh. “I want to go.”

Baldr shifts the cloak parcel higher. “Why?”

“Because I haven’t seen Myrkviðr. Because Asta will hate the road and pretend she doesn’t. Because your brother’s letter annoyed you, and I want to know whether he looks pleased about it.”

Baldr waits.

I hook one finger through the handle of the basket he’s carrying.

“And because you’re going.”

His whole face gets into the smile.

There he is.

He bends and kisses my forehead. “I’m glad.”

“Good.”

We start toward the hall with our hands sharing the basket handle. The purple cloak bumps Baldr’s hip with every step.

Three days ago, I came to dinner in a green dress and spent half the night trying not to fall out of my chair.

Now I’m going through the mountains with him.

Asta is going to make three packing lists.

I need to put the stuffed unicorn in the first bag before she starts.

Chapter Four

Baldr has been shirtless for six minutes, and I know this because I’ve counted every one of them instead of watching the arrows.

This is unfair to the arrows.

One sails past the straw target, strikes the dirt, and skips another three feet toward the wall where I’m sitting.

I duck. And I squeak. An actual squeak, out loud, in a yard full of soldiers, at an arrow that already stopped moving.

The arrow stops far enough away that I’d need to lie down and stretch both arms to touch it.

Nobody comments. Eleven recruits in this yard and not one of them turns around. Eleven people deciding at the same second to pretend that didn’t happen.

I love them. Every one of them.

Baldr walks to the arrow and pulls it from the dirt. Sweat runs between his shoulders. His dark shirt is folded beside me on the wall, where he put it after the second drill.

He looked straight at me while he took it off.

Then he asked me to keep it clean.