Chapter Seventeen
Snowpetal has butter behind her left ear.
I’ve washed her twice.
The butter remains.
She sits on the rug beside Baldr’s bed and licks one white paw while I work at it with a damp cloth.
“Hold still.”
Her ear folds beneath my thumb.
She turns her head and puts the paw on my wrist.
“You did this to yourself.”
Snowpetal licks my knuckle.
The butter is winning.
Baldr sits on the edge of the bed pulling a clean shirt over his head. He came in ten minutes ago with snow in his hair, a broken roof peg in one pocket, and enough wet wool on him to fill a bath.
His hair is still damp against his neck. The pale-green eye disappears behind the collar, then the amber one. He gets his head through and looks at me.
“You put her in the butter?”
“She put herself in it.”
“How?”
“With one paw.”
Snowpetal tries to take the cloth.
I move it beyond her teeth. “She climbed the sideboard, crossed Eirik’s shoulders, stole meat, and made me chase her around the kitchen.”
Baldr’s hands stop at the ties of his shirt.
Only for a second.
He looks down and finishes the knot.
I rub the last yellow streak from Snowpetal’s ear. “There.”
She shakes.
Cold water hits my cheek.
“That was unnecessary.”
Snowpetal walks across the rug and climbs onto Baldr’s bed.
He catches her before she reaches the pillows.
She goes boneless between his hands.
“No.”
Her club-tail strikes his arm.
“Still no.”
He puts her back on the floor. Snowpetal immediately climbs onto my lap, steps across both thighs, and returns to the bed from my side.
“She found another road,” I say.
“Close the border.”
I gather her against my chest. She purrs, clean ear pressed beneath my chin.
Baldr looks at the white fur.
“Why was she in the kitchen with him?”
There it is.
His voice stays easy. His shoulders don’t.
“She stole Asta’s ribbon and ran away.”
“That explains Snowpetal.”
“Eirik was already there.”
Baldr waits.
I should’ve begun with the part where he was face-down in the yard.
That part won’t help now either.
“He slept outside.”
Baldr’s eyes lift to mine.
“In the practice yard,” I add. “I saw him from the window this morning.”
“And?”
“And he looked dead.”
“He often does after drinking.”
“He was under the snow.”
“A hopeful arrangement.”
Snowpetal pushes her nose into the open edge of my nightdress. I pull her out before she reaches anything private.
“I went down to check.”
Baldr’s jaw moves once. “With Asta.”
“No.”
“A guard.”
“There were guards at the door.”
“At the door.”
“I could still see them.”
Baldr stands. He crosses to the hearth and sets another piece of wood on the fire. The flames climb around it.
He keeps his back to me.
“He was hurt,” I say.
“He heals.”
“He was cold.”
“He’s Skorvaer.”
“He was still cold.”
Baldr takes the iron poker and pushes the wood farther into the coals.
The end goes red.
“So you brought him inside.”
“I mean, he walked by himself.”
“Because you asked.”
“Because I said Asta would come collect us if he didn’t.”
He still hasn’t turned around. “A grave threat.”
“You’ve seen her with a brush.”
That should make him smile.
It doesn’t.
Snowpetal climbs over my shoulder. Her front paws land against my back while her tail swings across my face.
I catch it before one of the spikes reaches my nose.
“Then I made coffee. Well I didn’t make the coffee, the very nice kitchen lady already made it. I just put it in a cup,” I say.
Baldr sets the poker against the stone.
“For him.”
“That’s generally why people make coffee when another person is sitting at the table.”
“He has servants.”
“They left.”
“Convenient.”
I look at him.
Baldr closes his eyes.
“No,” he says. “That was unfair.”
Snowpetal climbs down my arm and lands on the blanket.
Baldr comes back to the bed. He sits beside me, close enough that our knees touch.
“I don’t like him using your kindness to get near you.”
“He didn’t ask me to come.”
“He never has to.”
It comes out harder than he means it to. His hand covers mine.
“Sól.”
“I made one cup of coffee.”
“I know.”
I turn my hand over under his. “I didn’t forgive him.”
His thumb stops against my knuckles. “I know.”
“You keep saying that,” I say, “but your face says I confessed to hiding him under the bed.”
Baldr glances down.
Snowpetal has pushed her head beneath the frame and is trying to fit the rest of herself after it.
“He wouldn’t fit,” he says.
“The mask may catch.”
There. A little of him comes back.
“Did he say why he was outside?”
“Not really. But I could tell he’d been beaten.” I squeeze Baldr’s hand. “His knuckles were split. One side of his face was bruised.”
He exhales through his nose.
I lean into his shoulder. The clean shirt is warm from his skin and smells faintly of pine soap.
“I told him I was still angry.”
“How did he take that?”
“He drank the coffee.”
Baldr looks toward the fire. “A powerful apology.”
“He said he knew.”
“Eirik knows many things. It’s never improved him.”
I think of bare hands around the cup. The bruise beneath his eye. His quiet answer when I said he’d hurt her.
I know.
Snowpetal’s back legs disappear beneath the bed.
Her tail remains outside and begins sweeping dust from the floor.
“What’s she doing?”
“Cleaning.”
Baldr turns his head toward me.
His fingers slide beneath my hair and close around the back of my neck.
I know that touch.
My stomach gives one small turn.
He bends and kisses me.
I kiss him back.
His mouth opens over mine. The hand at my neck holds me closer, and his other arm goes around my waist.
The bed shifts when he pulls me across his lap.
Snowpetal’s head appears beneath my foot.
I lift it before she decides my toes are involved.
Baldr kisses the corner of my jaw.
Then my throat.
His hand moves up my thigh beneath the nightdress.
I put my palm over it.
He stops.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s usually the answer before a great deal of talking.”
“I can be quiet.”
Baldr raises one eyebrow.
“I can.”
“For how long?”
“This isn’t supporting me.”
He gives me a small smile, but his hand stays beneath mine.
Waiting.
I should want this.
I’ve wanted it every night since Sólvik. I’ve wanted him in beds, against a stable post, halfway across a passage, and once while he was trying to explain a harbor chain.
Tonight his mouth is warm against my neck, his thigh is solid beneath mine, and my head keeps returning to a black cup between two scraped hands.
I move off his lap.
Baldr lets me.
“I’m tired.”
“You were tired before.”
I look at him.
The line between his brows disappears. His mouth opens, then closes.
“I do want you,” I say.
“Just not now.”
“Not this.”
“What’s the difference?”
I pull the nightdress back over my knees. “You’re upset.”
“I’m not asking you to fix that.”
“Then why does your face say I failed?”
His amber eye brightens.
“Because he never has to ask you for anything. And I have to ask just to touch you.”
The room goes very quiet.
Even Snowpetal stops scratching beneath the bed.
Baldr’s face opens again.
“Sól.”
“That was cruel.”
He sighs. “Yeah.”
“And stupid.”
“Also yes.”
I stand. He catches my fingers before I take the first step, his grip gentle.
“Please stay.”
I look down at our hands.
“I need to walk.”
“Inside.”
“I know.”
“Take the cloak.”
“I was going to.”
His thumb presses into my palm.
Then he lets go.
The purple cloak hangs beside the door connecting our rooms. I pull it over my nightdress and fasten the silver clasp.
Snowpetal backs out from beneath the bed with one of Baldr’s socks in her mouth.
He looks at her.
She runs into my room.
“That one’s yours,” I tell him.
Baldr rubs both hands over his face.
I leave him to it.
The hall is sleeping badly.
The storm has spent two nights pushing at Myrkvier and still hasn’t grown tired. Wind drives against the roof. Snow rasps over the shutters. Every fire burns higher than usual, and every passage smells of damp wool.
I walk past the guest stairs, then the dining room.
The head chair waits in the dark.
I keep going.
I don’t want the scale yard, the study, or any door that might contain a woman, a desk, and a lesson in minding my own business.
The west gallery has tall windows facing the lower practice ground, the glass black except where snow strikes and vanishes.
I stop beside the first window.
There.
A dull knock comes from outside.
Then another.
Not the shutters.
I wipe a clear circle in the fogged glass with the heel of my hand.
A lantern burns beside the practice fence.
Eirik stands beyond it.
Black coat. Silver mask. Long braids dark with snow.
One knife turns through the lantern light and strikes a wooden target.
Another is already in his hand.
A bottle sits upright near his boot.
He throws again.
The blade hits beside the first.
He takes the bottle, drinks, and puts it back in the same hole in the snow.
Another knife.
Another hard knock.
I watch.
His body is leaner than Baldr’s. Less breadth through the shoulders. Less weight in every movement.
His coat barely moves when he throws.
The knife leaves. The target takes it.
He never checks where it lands.
He knows.
I stay at the window until my breath clouds the glass again, then wipe it clear.
The side door is near the end of the gallery.
I know what Baldr said.
I’m not leaving the hall to walk through Myrkvier.
The practice ground is attached to the lower wall.
That distinction may not survive Asta.
It survives me.
I open the door.
Wind grabs my hood before I get it over my head.
Snow comes through the gap and covers one side of the floor.
I squeeze outside and force the door shut with both hands.
The red rope is still tied along the wall.
I hold it and work my way toward the fence.
Eirik throws.
The knife strikes. He doesn’t look at me.
The snow reaches halfway up my boots when I step off the packed path.
I stop at the edge of the training ground.
Eirik pulls another knife from the wooden rail.
“The window was warmer.”
His voice reaches me through the mask.
“You saw me?”
“You were breathing on the glass.”
“From out here.”
“It was very loud.”
I pull the cloak tighter.
He throws.
The knife turns once and buries itself near the center of the target.
“You’re drinking again.”
“Your gift wore off.”