Page 6 of The Sun He Buried

I’m half across her lap and still holding the ruined scarf. “I had him cornered.”

“Clearly.”

“There were complications.”

“There generally are when you sit down.”

I push myself upright. “That was hurtful.”

“Do you need a moment?”

“No. I need my hook.”

It’s rolled beneath the boots of a Skorvær courtier standing a few paces away.

Wonderful.

I know his face. I know most faces here, though names take longer. He eats at the lower end of Baldr’s hall and spends court gatherings close to whoever’s speaking loudest. Both eyes carry the gold of the strength kin, fixed on the tangle of wool around my ankles.

He nudges my hook with the toe of his boot.

It rolls farther away.

Asta sets the list beside her. Her shoulders go straight.

I touch her wrist before she can stand. “It’s all right.”

The courtier looks from my hand to my face. “Is it?”

“I think so. Unless the hook has offended you.” I bend to gather the nearest ball of wool. “It does have a difficult personality.”

His gaze moves over my skirt, my basket, the scarf dragging on the ground. “This is what human princesses do with their days?”

“Mostly. In the mornings we arrange flowers. After midday we ruin wool.”

Asta lowers her head. Her braid slides over one shoulder and hides most of her mouth.

The courtier misses that. “I’d wondered why Gullither sent you.”

There it is.

I wind the loose yarn around my palm. “For the flowers?”

“To occupy a chair in the hall.”

“Oh.” I glance toward the longhouse. “Which chair?”

His mouth flattens. “The treaty chair.”

“I don’t think we have one of those. Mine has a green cushion.”

Asta’s fingers close around my abandoned hook. She doesn’t hand it back. Sensible. I might point with it, and nobody needs that.

The courtier steps closer. “You make a game of this because you don’t understand where you are.”

“Sólvik.”

“Náströnd.”