Chapter Seventeen #2
“Coffee isn’t a gift.”
“Then I owe you nothing. A relief.”
He reaches for the bottle.
“How many times have you hit the middle?”
“All of them.”
“That one’s to the left.”
His purple eye moves to the target.
The knife sits one finger from the others.
“A humiliating defeat.”
He drinks.
I watch his throat work above the high edge of his coat.
The mask hides the rest.
He sets down the bottle and takes the last knife from the rail.
His bare fingers close around the handle.
Red marks remain across his knuckles from last night. Most have faded. One cut near his thumb opens when he tightens his grip.
It closes before he throws.
The knife hits the middle.
Eirik reaches for another but the rail is empty.
He looks at it.
I laugh.
His pale-green eye narrows.
“An excellent contribution.”
“You looked surprised.”
“The wood has betrayed me.”
“You used all the knives.”
He walks to the target and pulls one free, then another.
I follow his hands.
The knives are shorter than I thought. Plain dark handles. Narrow blades, each balanced near the guard.
Eirik looks at me over one shoulder.
I look at the target.
He pulls out the third knife.
Then stops.
“Do you want to try?”
I stare at him.
“The knife?”
“No. The storm.”
“You can’t throw a storm.”
“Then we’ve narrowed the lesson.”
“I don’t know how.”
“That’s generally why people learn.”
Oh.
I bounce once before I remember the snow, and my boots sink deeper.
Eirik sees.
The purple eye warms for half a second.
He walks back and holds out the knife, handle first.
“Take it.”
I reach.
Then stop.
“Is it sharp?”
“Only where the blade begins.”
“That’s most of the dangerous part.”
“Your education progresses.”
I take the handle.
The knife is heavier than it looked. The grip fills my palm, warm from his grip.
Eirik steps beside me.
“Face the target.”
“I was.”
“Your feet weren’t.”
I look down.
My left foot points at the target. The right has turned toward the hall.
It has good instincts.
“Both feet?”
“Unless you plan to run during the throw.”
I move the right one.
“Not that far.”
I move it back.
“You’ve discovered two wrong positions.”
“This teaching style needs warmth.”
“The fire is inside.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
He points to the target. “Choose a mark.”
“The middle.”
“Smaller.”
There’s a dark knot in the wood near the center.
I fix my eyes on it.
“Keep your wrist firm. Bring the knife up. Let your shoulder send it.”
I raise my arm.
“That seems too simple.”
“You haven’t done it yet.”
Fair. I throw.
The knife turns badly, strikes the target with the side of the blade, and falls into the snow.
I start laughing.
Eirik looks at the knife.
Then at me.
The skin beside his pale-green eye creases.
“You released late,” he says.
“I hit the target.”
“The knife disagrees.”
“It touched.”
“A standard built for you.”
I retrieve it before he can.
Snow fills the edge of my boot.
Excellent.
I return to the line and hold out the knife. “Again.”
Eirik looks at my wet boot.
“You’re dressed for bed.”
“I have a cloak.”
He takes the knife from me and wipes the snow from the blade with his bare hand.
Then he gives it back.
“Earlier.”
I throw.
The handle strikes first.
“Better,” he says.
“That looked worse.”
“The turn was closer.”
I go after it.
He follows.
By the fifth throw, the blade catches the outer edge of the target and stays there.
I jump.
Both boots leave the snow.
“I did it.”
“You’ve wounded the least important part.”
“It still counts,” I start clapping.
“Does it.”
“It’s in the wood.”
“So are six nails.”
I pull the knife free and turn toward him. “You said better.”
“It was.”
“Then I’m allowed pride.”
“Briefly.”
I smile.
His gaze catches on my mouth.
The storm keeps moving between us.
Eirik looks away first.
“Again.”
I return to the line. The next throw misses.
So does the next.
He corrects my elbow. My grip. The angle of my shoulders.
Each time, he comes closer.
“Your wrist,” he says.
“It’s firm.”
“It moved.”
“You were watching the knife.”
“I can manage both.”
I raise the knife again.
Eirik steps behind me.
My shoulders pull tight.
“Your stance is too narrow.”
His boot presses into the snow beside mine, showing the distance.
I move my foot.
“Your hips stay there.”
“Where?”
One hand stops beside my waist.
He doesn’t touch me.
The other hovers beneath my raised elbow.
“There.”
His chest is close behind my back.
Close enough that I can feel his warmth through the cloak when the wind drops.
“Bring the knife back.”
I do.
His fingers stay near my wrist.
Bare.
One inch away.
“Keep this still.”
His breath reaches the loose curl beside my ear.
I stop breathing.
The knife goes heavy in my hand.
Eirik says my name.
Low.
“Sól.”
I know this feeling.
I want him.
My thighs press together beneath the nightdress.
The ache begins anyway.
His next breath catches.
I turn my head.
The silver mask is close enough to touch my cheek.
Both eyes find mine.
Purple.
Green.
The skin between his brows pulls tight.
His eyes close for one breath.
He looks hurt.
Then he steps back.
Cold fills the space behind me.
“Enough.”
I lower the knife. “What happened?”
“You’re wasting my time.”
The change leaves me standing with my mouth open.
“You offered.”
“I was bored.”
“You said I was better.”
“You managed to put one knife in a wall.”
“The target.”
“Wood is wood.”
I grip the handle. “Why are you doing this again?”
His gaze fixes on me.
His brows smooth.
Both eyes go flat.
“Did you believe this was a lesson?”
“You were teaching me.”
“I was passing an hour.”
The knife feels colder.
“You do that often,” he says.
“Do what?”
“Walk toward anything dangerous enough to interest you and trust everyone else to keep you from bleeding.”
My fingers loosen.
“That’s not true.”
“A cracked door. The scale yard. A drunk man in the snow. Now this.”
He’s not wrong.
“Then you smile and wait to be praised for trying. A child playing with a knife has better sense.”
My eyes burn.
No.
Not here.
“I didn’t ask you to praise me.”
My voice comes out small.
Eirik’s shoulder jerks.
There.
The skin between his brows pulls tight again.
His eyes harden.
“Watching you mistake attention for respect has become pathetic.”
My face folds.
I can’t hold it.
One tear runs over my cheek.
Then another.
I blink hard enough to make the lantern jump. More spill anyway.
No sob comes.
No sound.
My body simply keeps crying while I stand there holding his knife.
Eirik flinches.
Small. Fast.
I see it.
He turns away before the next tear reaches my mouth.
His back faces me.
“Leave the knife.”
I hold it out.
He doesn’t turn.
I put it on the fence beside the bottle.
The blade knocks once against the wood.
Eirik reaches for neither.
I walk back to the rope.
The wind dries the first tears and brings more snow to replace them.
I don’t run.
I make every step slowly and get to the side door without falling.
The gallery is empty.
Good.
I close the door, wipe my face with both hands, and walk through the dark hall.
Baldr’s room has no lamp burning.
He lies on his side with his back to the door.
Asleep.
Perhaps.
I leave the purple cloak across the chair and slide beneath the blanket without touching him.
He doesn’t move.
I stare at the ceiling.
Eirik’s breath returns to the place below my ear.
His hands stay beside my body without touching it.
Then the words come back.
A child.
Pathetic.
The same face that showed pain twice had said both.
Baldr breathes beside me.