Pim counted the grey shape up the north stair, under his breath, the way he counted everything, because counting was the only thing a Quiet child was allowed to do in the back of the body without waking a Hand.
He was under the table. That was where he always was. The back of the body was a long low room with no windows and no candles, and it was full of things that had been put down and never picked up again: a rope with no gate at the end of it, a bell-clapper that had been taken out of the chapel and never hung again, a row of wet boots with the Mason’s chalk still on the heels. Pim had found a space under the big table among the boots, and he had made it his own, because nobody else wanted to be there and because the table was the only piece of furniture in the room with a proper top to hide under.
Fourteen. He counted the risers in his head, one, two, three, as the shape came up out of the yard. He did not need to see them. He could hear the stair through the wall, the way you can hear the rain on a roof without looking up.
