The Hask Book had cracked along its spine by Day fifty.
Calen opened it flat on the kitchen table, under the one lamp that burned without smoking. He had written in it every day since the first morning in the hall. He had never once torn out a page, though there were nights he had wanted to.
He turned back to the first Mark and started again from there. Each entry was short. A name.
A skill. A count. A number, written out in full, because the Ministry read numerals faster than people did and he did not want it reading his.
Harrow, Nell. Stillness. Mark. One hundred.
Harrow, Nell. Edge. Mark. Two hundred. Three clean runs, alone. Noise, shout, drawn steel.
Harrow, Nell. Unbind, one. Mark. Three hundred. Three clean runs. The third alone.
He wrote that line slowly. He did not write that she had asked to try again. She had asked twice.
