Page 72 of The Sun He Buried

Nothing built to be admired.

The place is beautiful anyway.

The carriage stops before the hall.

Baldr opens my door and offers his hand. His other hand stays close enough to catch me, though his eyes remain on the blanket tucked beneath my cloak.

I step down.

Snow crunches beneath my boots. The air smells of pine smoke and cold iron.

The baby pushes her head through the purple wool.

One snowflake drifts from the branch above us and lands between her little horns.

She blinks at it.

“Snowpetal.”

Asta steps down behind me. “You’ve had three hours.”

“I needed the snow.”

The baby presses her face beneath my chin.

“Snowpetal,” I say again.

She purrs against my throat.

Chapter Eight

The light’s going by the time Baldr’s party clears the lower road.

I’ve had her all day regardless. Everything she felt, hour by hour.

This afternoon it turned sharp. Fear first—hers, not mine, though it never feels like the difference—enough that I cracked the cup in my hand before it passed. Then anger. Then the flat refusal she’s had since she was small and someone told her no. By the time it eased she was so pleased with herself I wanted to break something larger.

Whatever she’d done, I had the feeling of it and not one scrap of the why.

Baldr sent no rider.

I’ve checked the road from my study window once.

Ketill claims seven.

I run my thumb across the backs of my knuckles. The skin’s new there, still raw.

“Ozur’s fire went out this morning,” Ketill says. “Burned the full three days.”

I keep my eyes on the road.

“You keep losing your place.” He taps the open ledger between us.

“Then stop talking.”

“I stopped twice. You looked out the window both times.”

“The yard requires supervision.”