The candle was a stub of tallow no longer than a finger. Calen set it on the ledge of the lodging wall and lit it with a match from the kitchen, and then he stepped back and let the flame settle.
It was Day seventy-nine. The sky over the Arena was the color of dishwater, and the lodging yard was still cold enough that the stones sweated.
Kade had passed the kitchen door on his way out, with his coat buttoned to the chin. He had seen Nell through the gap and slowed down.
“Candle girl,” he said, in his best voice for the yard.
Nell did not look up from the ledge. She did not answer him. Kade waited for the length of three breaths, then walked on with his title held up in front of him like a shield.
Nell stood in front of the ledge with her hands at her sides. She had her hair tied back with a strip of grey cloth. She had been awake before the bell, Calen knew, because he had heard her counting in the room next to his, very quietly, to no one.
“May I?” she said.
“Yes.”
