Page 44 of The Sun He Buried

Baldr opens the door and follows me into the passage. His bare shoulder brushes mine.

“Still safe?”

“No.”

His hand tightens at my waist.

The guest wing turns ahead.

Baldr’s thumb moves again.

Oh.

Chapter Five

We stop in front of my door and I stare at the latch. His hand is still at my waist. My basket hangs from his other arm. His shirt is still over his shoulder, which means the trip down the passage has done nothing to improve my ability to think.

Baldr waits beside me.

I reach for the latch.

Miss.

This would be less embarrassing if he hadn’t watched me open this door every night for the past month.

“It moved.”

“Did it.”

“Very slightly.”

His thumb presses into my coat. “Do you need help?”

“With my own room?”

“I was trying to be kind.”

“Try less.”

I catch the latch on the second attempt and push the door open. The lamp beside my bed is still burning. Asta left the cover turned low over it, though she also left my purple cloak hanging from the wardrobe, my travel boots lined beneath it, and three packed bags against the wall.

She may have been making a point.

On the washstand, a folded stack of cloths sits where I can’t miss it. Asta tracks my monthlies better than I do, and this one’s nearly finished with me—a day left, maybe less.

Baldr carries my basket inside and sets it on the table. One ball of grey yarn has escaped beneath the bread and is trailing over the rim.

“For the mittens?” He touches the yarn.

I pull it away before he discovers how little mitten exists. “You’re not allowed to inspect those.”

“I thought they were for me.”

“They are.”

“Then why can’t I inspect them?”

“Because one of them currently has three thumbs.”