Page 82 of The Sun He Buried

Ketill glances beneath the table. “No.”

“Oh.”

“She bit the man assigned to remove her.”

“He picked her up without asking.”

“He’s learned from the experience.”

Baldr sets down his cup. “The guard in the yard was helping us.”

“I explained that to her.”

“Did she understand?”

Snowpetal rolls onto her back. All four paws curl against her chest. Two little horns rest against one leg of Eirik’s chair.

“She understands many things.”

Asta looks at the stuffing near the hearth. “Not cushions.”

“The cushion startled her.”

“It was on the floor.”

“Suspicious.”

Ketill makes a low sound into his cup. It might be a laugh.

Asta looks at him again.

He drinks.

I eat the piece of meat Baldr cut for me. It’s smoky and rich, with little black seeds in the sauce. The kitchens sent fish too, dark bread, white cheese, roasted roots, and a bowl of preserved berries that taste sharp enough to make my jaw hurt.

Myrkviðr food expects winter to last forever.

I like that too.

Outside the narrow windows, the last blue light has gone from the snow. Stars show through the pines. The sky is clear enough that I can see a bright one between two branches whenever the fire drops.

The hall is quieter than Sólvik. There, the sea gets into every room. Here I can hear wood settle in the walls and boots pass in the corridor beyond the door.

One pair stops.

A young woman enters with a folded paper in one hand. Both eyes are grey. A dark streak crosses her cheek near the jaw, and her hair’s started escaping its knot.

She bows to Ketill. “The north room is open. Halla has the first crew on the sealed releases.”

Ketill closes his eyes.

That doesn’t sound promising.

“How long?” His cup stays halfway to the table.

“Three days if both crews work through the night. Four if they do not.”

Baldr’s fork lands against his plate.