Chapter Three #2
“Was there anything else?”
“No, Dróttin.”
Baldr breaks the seal with his thumb. I focus on my pastry.
I manage three bites before curiosity wins.
His eyes move across the page.
Then back to the beginning.
His jaw tightens.
That’s familiar.
I lean closer. “Good news?”
“Excellent.”
“You’re bending the letter.”
He looks down. The lower corner has folded beneath his fingers.
“It came that way.”
The steward looks at the ground.
I rescue him. “Thank you. You can go.”
He glances at Baldr.
Baldr nods. “Go eat something before the kitchens clear breakfast.”
“Yes, Dróttin.”
The steward heads back up the steps at a safer speed.
Baldr reads the letter once more. The pastry in his other hand is losing sugar to the wind.
I stop chewing. “Is it the count?”
“The count is flawless.”
“That sounds useful.”
“Every number recorded in Myrkvier is flawless. Every scale is flawless. Every cart left exactly as heavy as it should have been, and Ketill’s clerks are wounded that I asked.”
“Did they write wounded?”
“Eirik used more words.”
I know the name. Eirik rules Myrkvier. Baldr’s brother. A man I’ve heard discussed in rooms that grew quieter after his name.
I can’t find a face for him.
“What does he want you to do?”
Baldr hands me the letter.
The writing is neat and narrow. Most of it concerns weights, route seals, and Ketill’s opinion of Sólvik’s record keeping. Ketill’s opinion isn’t generous.
The final lines are shorter.
If Baldr doubts the mine count, he may observe the next release himself. Myrkvier will prepare a replacement allotment when he arrives. No additional silver will be sent east until then.
The signature is one sharp word.
Eirik.
“He wants you to collect it.”
“He wants to be difficult.”
“Can he be difficult and want you to collect it?”
“He’d insist on both.”
Baldr takes the letter back and folds it along the old crease. The new crease near the bottom remains.
“My insufferable brother is being stubborn.”
“His clerk is wounded too.”
“Ketill is always wounded. Usually by incompetence.”
“Ours?”
“Everyone’s.”
I finish the last bite of pastry while Baldr looks over the letter again. “When will you go?”
“As soon as I can leave the harbor work in someone else’s hands. Three days, perhaps four.”
There it is.
I’m going to miss him.
Oh.
That was quick.
Three days on the road, several more in Myrkvier, three days back. Longer if Eirik’s scales need to be admired one by one.
Baldr lowers the letter. “Come with me.”
I stop brushing sugar from my coat.
“To Myrkvier?”
“If you want to.” His eyes stay on mine. “I have to go. You don’t.”
I picture a dark road through the mountains, strange halls, colder weather, and Baldr beside me for all of it.
“Yes.”
“You can think about it.”
“I did.”
“That was fast.”
“I’m very efficient.”
His gaze drops to the sugar covering my coat.
“At decisions,” I add.
He smiles. “Asta will come.”
“You say that with great certainty.”
“Would she let me take you into the mountains without her?”
“No.”
“Would you go without her?”
“Also no.”
“Then Asta will come.”
Reasonable.
The wind pushes through the market and cuts straight through my coat. I pull the collar closed.
Baldr notices. “Myrkvier is colder than Sólvik.”
“Well, everything is colder than home.” I glare out at the harbor. “Your sea is trying to kill us.”
“The forest blocks the wind.”
“See? It has the right idea.”
“It also keeps the snow.”
I look at my coat.
It was made for Gullither winters, where snow arrives, is admired from a window, and apologizes by noon.
Baldr takes the basket from my arm.
This time I let him.
“Good thing we’re already at the market.” He passes the folded letter to the guard. “You need a warmer cloak.”
“I own cloaks.”
“Warm ones?”
“They have sleeves.”
“Cloaks don’t have sleeves.”
“Then I own coats.”
“Warm ones?”
I put the remaining half of his pastry in my mouth.
He sighs.
The cloak merchant occupies the far end of the lowest terrace, close enough to the harbor that every garment hangs from two pegs. Heavy wool covers the front rail in blue, brown, grey, green, and red. Fur-lined hoods hang along the back wall.
The merchant bows to Baldr, then looks at me.
Baldr sets the basket beside his boot. “For travel.”
“North?”
“Myrkvier.”
The merchant looks at my coat and makes the same face Asta made when I packed one pair of stockings for a six-day visit.
The merchant gives the front of my coat a short tug. “No.”
“I didn’t ask anything.”
“That coat won’t do.”
Baldr nods.
“Please don’t encourage him.”
They ignore me together.
The merchant pulls a dark-blue cloak from the rail. The wool is thick enough to stand by itself. Baldr takes it and drapes it around my shoulders.
It reaches the ground.
“I can’t walk in this.”
“That may improve your safety.”
I step on the hem.
Baldr catches me beneath both arms before I meet the cloak merchant’s floor.
Baldr keeps me upright. “Evidence.”
“You put the trap on me.”
The merchant removes the blue cloak and reaches for a brown one.
I see the purple behind it.
Deep purple. Nearly black where the wool folds, bright where the light reaches it.
The hood is lined with soft grey fleece, and the clasp is a plain round piece of silver-colored metal.
No embroidery. No jewels. Just good wool, good weight, and two deep pockets I could fit both hands into without losing them.
I touch the edge.
The merchant follows my hand. “That one was made for the north road.”
“I want this one.”
Baldr looks from me to the cloak. “You haven’t tried it.”
“I’ll still want it.”
The merchant lifts it from the rail.
The purple settles around me with the heavy warmth of two quilts. The hem stops above my boots. I pull the hood over my hair.
The market disappears at the edges.
“Well?” I turn toward Baldr.
He studies me. Both eyes warm.
“That one.”
“I already said that.”
“You were right.”
“I usually am.”
The merchant coughs.
“Often,” I correct.
He checks the shoulders, marks two small places for the clasp, and tells me he can have it ready by tomorrow evening. I reach for my purse.
Baldr reaches for his.
I put my hand on his wrist. “No.”
“I invited you.”
“To the market.”
He keeps the purse out. “To Myrkvier.”
“Your brother invited you.”
“He demanded I appear.”
I gesture toward the cloak. “Then he should buy the cloak.”
Baldr looks down at me.
I hold out my hand. “Give me the letter. I’ll write back.”
“He’ll send a thinner one.”
“Then I’ll make him feel guilty.”
“You haven’t met Eirik.”
“Does guilt not work?”
“I’m not convinced he owns any.”
I lower my voice. “I can buy my own clothes.”
Baldr’s fingers stop inside his purse.
He looks at me, then closes it.
“All right.”
That’s it.
No argument. No teasing until I give in. He lets me pay, and my cheeks get warm beneath the hood.
I hand over the coins.
Baldr picks up my basket.
I let him keep that too.
The merchant folds the cloak into a square and wraps it in waxed cloth for the walk back. Baldr takes the parcel before I can.
“I can carry one of those.”
“Which one?”
I look at the basket. Then the cloak.
“The pastry.”
“You ate it.”
“Excellent. I’m helping already.”
We climb toward the middle terrace. Baldr has the basket over one arm and my purple cloak beneath the other.
People stop him every few stalls. A smith asks about charcoal deliveries.
A woman selling dried herbs tells him her roof still leaks.
Two sailors disagree about whose boat damaged a pier post and try to make him decide from twenty feet away.
He remembers their names.
He remembers the roof.
He tells the sailors they both hit the post.
They argue.
He gives them each half the repair cost and keeps walking while they complain together.
“Do you ever get through the market in one day?”
“I was making good time until the ribbon stall.”
“That was your fault.”
“You bought twelve ribbons.”
“They were fairly priced.”
“After I left.”
“Exactly.”
At the top terrace, the hall rises above the market roofs. Smoke pulls east from the longhouse chimney. Beyond it, the sky is pale and clear over the mountains.
Myrkvier is somewhere past them.
Baldr follows my gaze. “You can still say no.”
“I know.”
“My brother is difficult.”
“You mentioned insufferable.”
“That too.”
“Will he make me admire the scales?”
“He may make us admire Ketill.”
“Is Ketill impressive?”
“Ask Ketill.”
I laugh. “I want to go.”
Baldr shifts the cloak parcel higher. “Why?”
“Because I haven’t seen Myrkvier. Because Asta will hate the road and pretend she doesn’t. Because your brother’s letter annoyed you, and I want to know whether he looks pleased about it.”
Baldr waits.
I hook one finger through the handle of the basket he’s carrying.
“And because you’re going.”
His whole face gets into the smile.
There he is.
He bends and kisses my forehead. “I’m glad.”
“Good.”
We start toward the hall with our hands sharing the basket handle. The purple cloak bumps Baldr’s hip with every step.
Three days ago, I came to dinner in a green dress and spent half the night trying not to fall out of my chair.
Now I’m going through the mountains with him.
Asta is going to make three packing lists.
I need to put the stuffed unicorn in the first bag before she starts.