Hetta found Calen at the trough before the first bell on Day 118. She had the slate under her arm and her hair tied back so tight it pulled at her temples.
“Yes or no,” she said.
Calen had not slept much. He had sat in the staff passage with the Ledger open on his knees and written nothing in it, and the cold had come up through the flags into his shins.
“Yes,” he said.
Hetta did not move. “Yes, what?”
“If the Keep fails today, you may leave it. With your slate and your name, and nobody will write a word against you.” He held her eyes. “I will not ask you to stay for a sum.”
Hetta looked at him for a long time. He saw her weigh the answer, the way she weighed a sack, and this time the scale did not tip.
“Then I will count it,” she said, and went to find her place in the line.
