The kitchen stove had been cold for two hours, and Calen had not moved from the bench beside it.
He had turned the lamp low. The small Ledger lay shut on his knee, with his hands folded over it.
The wind came through the shutters from the river side of the Keep in long pulls that made the flame lean and straighten, lean and straighten. He was not asleep. He had not slept properly for most of the week.
The day had been long. Vesna had closed a carter’s finger twice, once for the skin and once for the bone. He had watched both passes and had been pleased by the second one. He had not said so, because pleasure was not a thing he handed out in the infirmary.
Somewhere past the second bell, the Keep had gone quiet in the way that meant everyone was pretending to sleep. The stair creaked. Calen did not turn his head.
“Teacher.”
Nell stood in the doorway in her nightshirt, with bare feet on the cold flags and a blanket over one arm. She did not come in right away. She looked at the stove, then at the lamp, then at him.
