Ysra came into the Kitchen at midday with the Watch’s count-book under her arm. Pell knew, from the way the book was held, that she had come to ask for something she did not want to be given.
Pell was at the table with the onions. She had a knife in one hand and an onion in the other, and she was halfway through slicing it into the pot of stock that had been bubbling since the second bell, and her eyes stung the way they always did when she cut onions, which was a relief to her because she could blame the onions for anything else. She did not stop cutting when Ysra came in. She heard the Watch’s boots on the flags and she heard the count-book being set down, very precisely, on the corner of the table, and she heard the Watch take a breath to begin.
“I want a Knot,” said Ysra.
Pell’s knife stopped.
She looked up. The Watch was standing at the end of the table, very straight, with her hands folded at her waist. Her face was pale and tight and her eyes were red at the rims, the way eyes go when a Watch has not slept for a week and has been counting in the dark for most of it. She had the look of a woman who had decided something a long time ago and had been waiting ever since to be allowed to say it aloud.
