Sect Year 3 · tenth month · night of day 29 · the thirty-second life: the stern of a fishing boat, his seventh year
The aft cabin of the Carried Hour was the size of a grave and smelled of tar, lamp oil and the wet wool of drying coats. Twenty days out, the sea had found every seam in the timber, and the cabin creaked with each long roll as if it were talking to itself. Lin lay on the berth with his boots off and his coat folded under his head. The copy of the writ was inside the coat, where it had been on every night of the voyage.
Su sat on the stool beside the berth. The lamp was turned low, so that the light fell on the oilcloth across her knees and on her hands, and the record lay open on the oilcloth with the pen capped beside it. She had been sitting there since the watch changed. Lin could tell from the stillness of her shoulders that she had been waiting for him to stop pretending to sleep.
“Calm?” she asked.
“Yes.”
He wanted to say more. The word was true as far as it went, but it didn’t go far, and he had never found a better one. Su would have wanted a better one. She would have asked him what kind of calm he meant, and whether it had been earned on the ship or only carried aboard in his coat with…
