Page 42 of The Sun He Buried

I look at it.

He raises his eyebrows.

“You could remain shirtless.”

“Could I.”

“The walk to the hall is short.”

“You’ve given this thought.”

“I’m trying to save time.”

“Very practical.”

I give him the shirt.

He drapes it over one shoulder.

Oh.

That works too.

Baldr carries the empty water cup toward the equipment chest. I gather my coat and basket from the far end of the wall.

My blue wool basket is full of useful things: two balls of yarn, my hook, a heel of bread, three buttons, and one folded packing list I stole from Asta because it included the words emergency stockings.

No emergency has ever required stockings.

I hook the basket over my arm and step away from the wall.

My heel catches on the low wooden stake beside it.

I get one foot free.

The other doesn’t follow.

The basket flies off my arm.

Baldr drops the cup.

He catches me around the waist before I hit the dirt.

Both my hands land on his bare shoulders. My knees strike his thighs. For one confusing second, I’m held sideways across him with both feet off the ground.

“I had that.”

“You were falling.”

“I was stepping.”

“Toward the ground.”

“That part was still undecided.”

He sets me upright.

His arms stay around me.