Page 95 of The Sun He Buried

I could wake him.

I could say, Hello, I know we spent three days on the road and broke several rules involving Asta’s wall, but your brother’s empty chair has become very noisy. Please fix it.

No.

Baldr needs sleep. Tomorrow he can argue about silver until everyone wishes the bars had stayed missing.

I lift his hand.

Slowly.

His fingers catch in the blanket. I free them one at a time and set his hand beside him.

Baldr exhales.

I freeze with one knee off the bed.

He turns onto his back and keeps sleeping.

Excellent.

Snowpetal opens one white eye.

“No.”

Her ear moves.

“You stay. Guard him.”

She puts her chin on Baldr’s ankle.

Good girl.

The floor is cold. I find my shift, pull it over my head, and step into the slippers Asta left beside the bed. My purple cloak hangs by the wardrobe.

It’s far too warm for an indoor walk.

I put it on anyway.

The fleece closes around me. I lift the latch, slide through the door, and shut it before Snowpetal can reconsider her assignment.

The guest passage is empty.

Lamps burn low along the walls. Dark beams cross overhead, and every hinge carries a thin strip of vein-silver. The nearest window shows black pines, white ground, and enough stars to make the snow shine.

I walk toward the stairs.

This is exploring. I’m awake, the hall is beautiful, and nobody’s forbidden it.

Asta would forbid it.

She’s asleep.

The stairs take me to the dining room. Its doors stand open now. The head chair is empty in the dark, one leg still wearing a few strands of Snowpetal’s fur.

I keep walking.

The passage beyond it turns twice and divides around a stone column. I choose the left because the lamp on that side is brighter.