Sella had come up to the Regent’s room before the candle-clock with her bone-ledger under her arm and a basin of cold water in her hands, because she had decided that a Regent who could not sleep should at least be kept clean, and she had not been able to think of a better way of making the point. She set the basin on the table by the window. She dipped a cloth and wrung it out and held it out to him, and he took it with his right hand, the way he took everything now.
“The Recovery,” said Sella. “You have been drafting it in your sleep, Highness. You talked about it while I was taking your pulse. You talked about the mould, and the iron, and a Chamberlain’s shape, and you said we find twice in one breath, which is a symptom of a man who wants very badly to be a prince and cannot yet remember how.”
“Did I say anything else?”
“You said Velvet’s name,” said Sella. “And then you said it again, as though you had forgotten you had already said it.”
He put the cloth to his face and did not reply.
“The diagnosis first,” said Sella. “The Recovery needs a Tithe. Tallow has told you so, and Gaunt has told you so, and Korrin has told you that the Tithe is a thief in a clause. The Tithe is iron. Iron is the body’s own bread. It is the one thing the…
