The girl in the third row was fourteen, small-boned, with her dark hair braided tight with twine to keep it out of her eyes. Meanwhile, she hauled water buckets for the lower herb beds. Her name tag on the wooden roll hanging by the porch read Miri — Second Year Outer Roll. While the other new students were pairing off to practice the hip-turn variation of the sixth form, she had stepped into the shift between the eighth and ninth base stances. The exact bridge where internal Coal breath was supposed to gather at the top of the chest and project outward down the arm channels toward the palms.
Twice she drew the breath up her spine with clean, textbook posture. Twice, as the warmth reached the upper ribs beneath her collarbones, her shoulders hitched. Her chin was tucked in reflexively. The breath flow stalled with a dull, visible pinch beneath her chest bone.
Elder Hesh saw her falter from the porch step. By thirty years of habit, the old teacher walked down the gravel line. He set his wax slate under his left arm. Then it reached out with his right hand to lift Miri’s right elbow two inches higher.
