Page 96 of The Sun He Buried

This is how excellent explorers make decisions.

The rooms change past the turn. Smaller doors. Workrooms, perhaps. One smells of leather. Another has narrow shelves visible through the open latch, all of them stacked with folded cloth.

A larger room at the end stands open. Long tables fill it, each covered in ledgers, tally sticks, and cloth bags tied with red cord. Eight missing bars have produced a great deal of paper.

I lean inside.

The nearest ledger is open to rows of figures. I understand none of them from the doorway, though two columns have been checked so hard the writing stick tore the page.

Someone cares about these numbers.

Baldr said Eirik took the longest road to inconvenience. The torn paper suggests another possibility.

I step back before curiosity turns into touching. I know myself.

At the next crossing, I look back.

Both passages appear equally unfamiliar.

Wonderful.

I can retrace my steps. Left, right, stairs, empty chair, guest wing.

Probably.

A low sound comes through the door beside me.

I stop.

Another follows. A woman this time, one breath pulled tight and released.

Someone may be hurt.

That’s the first explanation my head offers, because my head has learned nothing from thin walls.

I move closer.

The door isn’t shut. There’s a gap, a hand’s width, firelight coming through it across the floor. I hear cloth move, then a man’s voice too low for the words to reach me.

The woman answers.

“I want you to feed.”

A low laugh reaches me.

“And I want your hands on me.” She takes a breath. “I know what you offer. I’m not asking you to love me.”

Cloth moves again.

Her next word breaks on a gasp. “Yes.”

Oh.

Nobody is hurt.

I should leave.

The woman makes another sound. Softer. The floorboard beside the door creaks beneath my slipper.