Calen waited until the bread was on the table before he asked it.
It was Day eighty-four. The lodging hall was warm from the kitchen fire, and the class sat in its usual places along the two benches. Nell was at the end nearest the stove, with her cuff pulled down over the red line on her thumb.
Dorran sat with his back to the wall. Liss had her elbows on the table, which she knew was wrong. Tobin had a heel of bread in one hand and a cup of water in the other, and he was not drinking from either.
Kade sat at the far end with his title on his face. He had been quiet since the morning. He had not said candle girl again since the stairs.
Hesper sat across from Calen, with her hands folded neatly in front of her plate. She had eaten half of her bread. She had been watching Calen all through the meal, the way she watched a board when she was trying to decide which piece to take first.
“Dray,” said Calen. “Who cut the training blades on Day six?”
The hall went still.
It was not the stillness of fear. Calen had learned the difference in the first week. This was the stillness of people who had been waiting for a question for a long time, and had not expected it to come at breakfast.
