Page 62 of The Sun He Buried

Nobody answers.

I carry Ozur out.

He stays heavy the whole way up.

Chapter Seven

“How big was he?”

The carriage wheel drops into a rut.

I grab the strap beside the window. Asta keeps her cup level through the entire jolt, because the road respects her and has been trying to kill me since sunrise.

She takes another drink.

“Asta.”

“You said you’d tell me everything.”

“I’ve told you everything.”

“You told me about the buttons.”

“There were twenty-three.”

“The number of buttons wasn’t my question.”

I pull the purple cloak tighter around my legs. The fleece lining is warm. The bench beneath me isn’t. Asta put the thickest cushion on my side before we left Sólvik and hasn’t mentioned it once.

That is friendship.

It is also evidence.

I lower my voice. “He’s riding right there.”

Baldr’s horse moves beside the carriage, close enough that his boot appears each time the curtain lifts. The boot is large too, though this information won’t satisfy Asta.

“The wheels are loud,” she says.

“They become quiet whenever I say anything embarrassing.”

“You say embarrassing things continuously. They’d never get anywhere.”

I look at the strap in my hand. “Excessive.”

Asta waits.

“That is my answer.”

“Excessive is not a size.”

“It is a complete assessment.”

“How much did it hurt?”

Her voice changes on that one. The teasing stays in her face, but her fingers stop around the cup.

“Not much.” I shift on the cushion. “A little now.”