Chapter 7: The Roof

I couldn't sleep that night.

My room was warm, the baby was quiet, and I lay on my back and stared at the stone ceiling.

Torin had wanted the child.

He had not wanted me, and I had watched him not want me across a frozen field.

I got up around midnight and pressed my palms against the cold wall, the way I did when I couldn't think.

The wall was cold.

My hands were not.

I stood there for a long time, not moving, with my fingers flat against the stone.

For three years my hands had been two blocks of ice, in summer and winter alike.

Torin used to hold them between his own and say, "Poor thing."

Now they were as warm as bread.

I put on a wool coat of Edda's and went out into the corridors.

I didn't decide where to go, but my feet took me up.

The stairs at the end of the east wing led to a narrow door.

Past it was the roof walk, a flat stone path behind the battlements.

The whole black mountain range lay below it under a cold half moon.

Ronan was standing there in his shirtsleeves.

His back was to me, and he was looking south, toward the river and Stonewater.

He knew I was there before I'd taken two steps.

"I can go back down," he said, without turning.

"Don't."

I came up to the wall beside him and set my hands on it.

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