Page 63 of The Sun He Buried

Her eyes drop.

“Do not look at how I’m sitting.”

“I’m looking at the cushion.”

“You’re pleased with the cushion.”

“I packed it.”

“You packed six cushions.”

“Because I know you.”

The curtain lifts. Baldr bends toward the open window, one hand loose on the reins. His hair is tied at the nape of his neck for the road, and the morning sun reaches the amber eye first.

“Do either of you need anything?”

“No,” I say.

“A number,” Asta says.

I kick her boot.

She doesn’t spill the cup.

Baldr looks between us. “What number?”

“The number of hours until we stop for midday,” Asta says.

“Three.” His gaze moves to me. “Are you comfortable?”

My bottom isn’t his concern after last night.

It may be partly his concern.

“Very.”

Asta takes another drink.

Baldr’s gaze drops to the cushion, then returns to my face.

Oh, no.

He knows why the cushion is there.

His mouth pulls into a grin.

I close the curtain.

Asta’s shoulders begin moving.

“Don’t.”

She sets the cup down before she loses it. “He heard you.”

“He didn’t.”

“His face heard you.”