The Chamber of Hands sat at the candle-clock in the Great Hall, on the long oak benches that the Hold had dragged out of the old refectory and polished with its own sleeves. Tallow kept the minutes at the head of the table. He had chosen the seat for a practical reason. The table’s end sat furthest from the great hearth, and the ink in his pot did not freeze there, even on the coldest mornings. The Ink was colourless and needed no warmth to keep it, but he had always found it easier to write when the pot was not stiff.
This morning the pot was not stiff, and his hand was.
He had written the first line of the minutes, the date and the hour and the number of seats present, and then the quill had stopped. The bloom had come up through the flagstones at the candle-clock, a single shudder through the benches, and every Hand at the table had felt it at once. Tallow’s right hand closed on the quill and would not open again. He could see the fingers. He could feel them. They did not answer the order he gave them, which was to let go, and he sat looking at his own knuckles, white around the feather, while the Chamber went on around him.
