Before they went up, the four of them went to the vessels that belonged to them.
Brannoc went first. He had not decided to. He found himself walking back down the third row of the Cradle with his white hand held a little out from his body and his boots soft on the pale tiles, and the lamp’s blue light lay on the rim of the Watch vessel as it had lain before, and he stopped beside it because it was his. The print of his palm was still there on the grey clay, white against the dust, clean and distinct. He looked at it for a while. Then he put his hand on the rim again, just beside the print, not over it, and he felt the faint hum rise up under the clay and into his fingers.
Ysra came down the row behind him. She did not say anything. She went to the Watch vessel and stood at its other side, and then she laid her own palm on the rim beside his, so that the two hands lay on the cut word together, one pale and one brown, and the clay answered them both with the same small hum. Brannoc heard her breath catch, and then steady.
