Pell stood at the Hearth with her hands on the rail and her name in her mouth, and it tasted of iron, the way the Forge’s water tasted after a long day in the heat.
She had not meant to come back into the Hall. She had said her piece at the rail and walked out, and she had got as far as the Kitchen passage with the true paper folded in her apron pocket and her heart going like a bellows, before she had turned round and come back. The Chamber was still sitting. Tallow had not closed the minute. Idrin had not moved from the head of the casks. Velvet, at the right hand, had her hands folded in her lap and her face turned toward the Hearth’s grey rail with an expression Pell had never seen on it before, which was the look of a woman who had been waiting a very long time to see somebody else do the thing she had not dared to do herself.
“Pell,” said Idrin quietly, from the head of the table.
“I know,” said Pell. “I am not supposed to be here. I am a cook. I have bread in the tins.”
