Chapter Eight #2
Thora smiles. She leans one elbow on the desk and pulls off one glove, finger by finger.
“Tomas asked for his mother again today.” The glove stops in her lap. “Nearly a season gone, and he still forgets.”
I rock the cup on its base, tilting it until the ale climbs the rim, then back before it spills. Then again.
“He calls me Mother when he’s half asleep now.” She works the second glove loose. “My sister would’ve laughed.”
Her bare hand rests on the desk, palm up. I set two fingers against it. She closes her hand around them.
“Take it,” she says.
I do.
Grief comes cold through her skin. It climbs my wrist, clean and deep, and packs the room in grey wool.
It sinks in and holds. The ale doesn’t keep me alive. The tray going cold by the fire doesn’t either—those are habits, the way a drink is a drink. This is what does. I run empty like anything that lives, and I fill on what people feel, taken straight off the skin, whatever they’ve got to give.
Tonight it’s grief—cold, salt, a taste like old coin at the back of the throat.
It all carries a flavor; some feeders chase the sweet ones, some would rather have grief and the heavy things.
I stopped telling them apart a long time ago.
I take what the body needs, she’ll walk out lighter, and I carry the grey for it. Nothing I’d cross a room for.
Thora’s breath catches. She keeps hold of me.
Tomas’s unanswered calls run through it. Thora’s mouth opens on the ache, and I draw until its edge stops cutting her.
Her shoulders lower. She takes one full breath, then another. Her thumb moves across my knuckles.
“The money kept our room another month,” she says. “Tomas sleeps better there.”
I drink with my free hand.
“The widow upstairs minds him when I come here. She’s leaving at thaw.”
“Or I could come here instead.” She traces the edge of my ring. “Not only when you send for me. The boy too. There are rooms enough.”
Below us, Solveih laughs.
Her brightness cuts straight through the grief, hot under my skin.
She was mine first.
I empty the cup.
Thora watches me over our joined hands. “Would that trouble you?”
I take the last sharp pull of grief. Her fingers loosen. When I lift my hand, she sits lighter in the chair, hollow-eyed and steady.
The next knock comes without patience.
Ketill enters with two mine clerks and a narrow tally board. His gaze passes over Thora’s bare hand, my cup, and the bottle beside the east ledger. His walls remain pleasantly low. Nosiness has always been his most durable organ.
“Your guests are housed,” he says. “Snowpetal ate a cushion.”
“Did the cushion offend her?”
“It concealed meat.”
“Then it died in service.”
“The human apologized to both.”
Thora glances toward the door. Ketill sets the tally board beside my cup.
“East reserve,” he says.
Three columns are cut into the wax: stock, releases, metal under lock. The last figure falls short.
“Eight bars.”
The older clerk nods. “We counted three times, my Dróttin. I took the first. He took the second. Ketill watched the last.”
“I was magnificent,” Ketill says. “Still eight.”
One release bears the mine seal and a cart mark from three days ago. The physical stock is eight below the ledger. The receipt from the eastern pass hasn’t returned.
“We checked the rack beds and the weigh room,” Halla says. “There’s no loose bar under another mark.”
“A late receipt explains it,” Ketill says.
“A receipt explains ink.” I turn the board toward the clerks. “Count every reserve.”
The younger clerk blinks. “All four?”
“Have I acquired more?”
“No, my Dróttin.”
“Then all four should contain the task.”
Ketill rests his fingertips on the board. “The other reserves agree with their ledgers.”
“They agreed this morning. Give them the pleasure again.”
Thora draws on her glove. Slowly.
“Open every sealed release,” I say. “Count the bars by hand. Nothing leaves for three days.”
The older clerk looks up. “Dróttin Baldr’s allotment is sealed.”
“Break it.”
“It was counted at the mine, the upper gate, and the north room.”
“A fourth count will soothe its nerves.”
Ketill’s eyes lift to mine. “Breaking that seal holds Baldr’s party here.”
I slide the tally board back to him. “Pay both crews for the extra hours.”
“He can inspect the questionable reserve without waiting for the others.”
“He came to inspect a complete release.”
“Which was complete before supper.”
“Then supper has ruined it.”
The clerks keep their faces arranged with heroic care.
“Every count,” I say. “Every seal. Three days.”
They bow and take the board.
Thora stands with them. The little purse waits where I left it beside the west lamp. She takes it and smooths her thumb over the ties.
“Next week?” she asks.
I pour what remains in the bottle. “Don’t go far.”
She waits for the rest.
“I’ve a feeling I’ll have need of you again before the night’s out.”
Ketill opens the door. Thora slips past him with the purse in her hand—and a small, careful hope she thinks she’s hiding.
The clerks follow. Ketill closes the door and stays.
His gaze touches the chair beneath the west lamp. Then the empty cup. Then the seal drawn beside Baldr’s allotment.
His walls rise a notch. Beneath them, concern stays warm and steady. He’s decided to inspect me. That’s what clerks are for.
I lift the fresh cup. “Try to survive the mystery.”
“I’m considering a cushion.”
He picks up a folded slip the clerks left beneath the tally board. “North watch.”
The paper gives tomorrow a clear road. Pressure falls after that. A storm comes on the fourth day, though the front may still turn north.
No restriction advised.
Ketill reads it over my shoulder. “If the count runs long, they’ll be close.”
He reaches for the slip. I keep it.
“Tell Baldr about the recount,” I say.
His hand stays open between us. “And the weather?”
“There’s no warning to give.”
“There’s a storm four days out.”
“There may be snow four days out. In winter. He’ll recover from the surprise.”
Ketill lowers his hand. He leaves me with the question he doesn’t ask.
The dinner bell rings before the figures stop shifting on the page.
A servant brings a tray and asks whether I’ll join my guests.
“No.”
She sets the meal beside the fire. The fat clouds over before she reaches the hall.
Ale blunts the lamplight. Thora’s grief keeps the room cold and far away.
Below, Solveih laughs.
It slips under my door.
I have it in the same breath.
I put the north-watch slip beneath the east ledger and turn the page.
Outside, the sky remains clear.