The kitchen door opened a crack before dawn, and Calen was already awake to hear it.
He lay on his bunk in the staff passage and listened. Soft feet on the flags. A pause. Then the small click of a latch lifted with great care, the way a child lifts a thing she has been told not to touch.
He got up without a light.
The kitchen was warm and smelled of yeast. Two loaves sat on the scrubbed table, still steaming. Anni Vask stood beside them with her coat buttoned to the chin and both hands pressed flat on the wood.
She saw Calen and went white. She did not run. She stood very still, the way she had stood in the yard, and waited to hear what it would cost her.
“How many loaves have you taken?” asked Calen.
“Two,” said Anni. “They are for Joss. She did not eat last night.”
“Two,” said Calen. “Are they for Joss, or for you?”
