Page 71 of The Sun He Buried

“The back ones didn’t.”

The little club-tail bumps the bench.

The wood cracks.

We both look down.

“Small crack,” I say.

Asta moves to the other bench.

Baldr appears at the window before the carriage starts. His gaze goes straight to my face, then my gloves, then the white ball in my lap.

“Still alive?”

“Very.”

The baby shows him all her teeth.

Baldr’s horse puts three more feet between itself and the carriage.

“She’s nervous,” I say.

“So is the horse.”

“He should come inside. It’s warmer.”

Baldr looks at the broken line in the bench.

“I’ll ride.”

The carriage rolls around the wreck.

I keep the curtain closed until the dead blue body is behind us.

The little Sanguir doesn’t look back. She curls into the fold of my cloak, puts her nose against my wrist, and falls asleep before the road straightens.

She wakes twice before Myrkviðr.

The first time, she climbs my chest and settles across my shoulders. The second, she steals half a strip of dried meat from Asta’s hand and swallows it without chewing.

Asta gives her the other half.

“You like her,” I say.

“I prefer having all my fingers.”

The baby licks salt from her thumb.

“Of course.”

Near dusk, the pines open.

Myrkviðr rises through them in dark wood, stone, smoke, and snow. Houses sit between the trunks instead of pushing them back. Paths twist around roots and disappear under white drifts. At the top of the slope, a long hall stands above the settlement with firelight in its narrow windows.

No towers.

No bright banners.