Page 87 of The Sun He Buried

“And the latches?” Asta shifts Snowpetal higher.

“Still on the doors.”

“High?”

“Higher than Solveih can reach.”

I stop beside Baldr. “I can reach doors.”

“You missed your own latch twice yesterday,” Asta tells me.

Ketill looks at Baldr.

Baldr looks at the ceiling.

Traitors. All of them.

The passage beyond the dining room runs beneath dark beams and narrow lamps. No painted walls. No bright hangings. It’s still beautiful. Dark wood, black stone, and little pieces of silver fitted into every hinge.

We reach the stairs.

Ketill stays at the bottom. “I have six books waiting to disappoint me.”

“I hope they’re interesting,” I tell him.

“They’re numbers.”

“Then I hope they stay in the right columns.”

His eyes warm. “So do I.”

Asta starts up with Snowpetal.

“Lady Asta.”

She turns two steps above him.

Ketill rests one hand on the newel post. “The laugh wasn’t at her.”

“Then next time, explain before I have to ask.”

“There’ll be a next time?”

“You seem poorly supervised.”

She keeps climbing.

Ketill watches her reach the landing.

Then he notices me watching him.

I smile.

His eyes narrow.

Excellent.

The west rooms are larger than my chamber in Sólvik and colder near the windows. Someone has unpacked our bags, hung my purple cloak beside the wardrobe, and placed the stuffed unicorn on the pillow.