Page 81 of The Sun He Buried

“Does Eirik eat somewhere else?” I keep my voice low, though there’s nobody here to disturb except three servants and a predator with venison on her whiskers.

Baldr cuts through a potato. “When he wants to.”

Ketill drinks from his cup. “He usually wants to.”

“Just not with us.”

“Apparently.”

Asta’s knife moves through the meat in one clean line. Mine has been sawing at the same piece long enough to make it personal.

Baldr reaches over, trades our plates, and cuts it for me.

“I had that.”

“You were threatening it.”

“It knew what it did.”

Ketill looks at the knife in my hand, then at the neat pieces appearing under Baldr’s. “Should we send for a softer animal?”

“I could use softer meat.”

“It’s suffered enough,” Asta tells me.

I look between them.

Asta eats a potato.

Ketill goes back to his cup.

Good. Everyone is getting along.

Baldr returns my plate. The meat has been cut into pieces small enough for a child.

I stab the largest one.

“Thank you.”

His knee presses against mine beneath the table. “You’re welcome.”

Three days in a carriage should have made me less aware of his legs.

It didn’t.

The dining room’s warm enough that I left my purple cloak upstairs. The sleeves of my blue dress end at my wrists, and Baldr’s hand covers half my forearm when he reaches for the bread. His little finger brushes mine.

I miss the meat with my fork.

Asta sees.

Of course she does.

She takes a drink and keeps her face very still.

Snowpetal snores under the empty chair.

“Is she allowed in here?” I point my fork toward the white tail stretched across the floor.