Calen came down the passage with a lamp before the bell. Tobin was already dressed. He had sat on the edge of his bench since the first grey light, with his boots laced and his hands in his lap.
“Cellar,” said Calen. “Bring nothing.”
“Yes, sir.”
Breakfast was bread and thin milk at the kitchen table. Tobin tore his crust into four equal pieces and lined them up on the wood.
He did not know why he did that. It helped to have things in a line.
The kitchen had one table and four stools. Only three of the stools had been used that morning, and the fourth had been pushed back against the wall. Tobin did not look at it for long.
He had felt the thing about being kept every night since the cart came.
It was not the same as being alone. Being alone meant nobody was watching. Being kept meant somebody had decided where you stayed, and had written it down.
