The sky over the yard was the colour of dishwater when Calen came out of the kitchen. The Keep was waking slowly around them. A door banged in the kitchen wing, and somewhere behind the stables a bucket scraped across flagstones while a man swore at it.
Tobin was already on the bench by the trough. He had his left sleeve pulled down over his hand and his right arm laid across his knee, and he had not moved since the bell.
“You are early,” said Calen.
“I did not sleep much.” Tobin turned his head.
“I counted the boards in the ceiling. There are one hundred and twelve.”
Nell came across the yard with a grey blanket over one arm. She stopped at the end of the bench and looked at the boy’s hand inside the sleeve.
“May I sit?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Calen.
