The infirmary smelled of vinegar and boiled linen. Vesna had rolled her sleeves to the elbow and was bent over a wooden frame.
Across the frame, stretched tight, was a square of old sail cloth. A line of chalk ran down the middle of it.
“Again,” said Calen.
Vesna did not complain. She picked up the needle and set the point at the top of the chalk line, the way he had shown her on the first day.
Her hands were steady. Her breathing was not, and she knew it, and she slowed it down before she started.
“Breathe out on the pull,” said Calen. “Not on the stitch.”
“I know.”
“Then do it.”
