Sect Year 3 · eleventh month · night of day 11 · the thirty-third life: Ammel Gorge, her eleventh year
At the end of the day the light left the valley from the bottom up, the way water leaves a basin. Ysha watched it go from the top step of the toll-house. The herders had gone back up the north slope with their goats and their empty hands, and the gate had been barred for the night. Her uncle had counted the cup twice, and then once more under his breath.
The toll-house garden lay below the steps, its beans gone brown on their poles, and the smell of cut stalks drifted up on the cool air. She had her knees drawn up under her chin and the tally board across her lap. The chalk stub was still in her fist, because she hadn’t yet decided what to write at the foot of the column.
Her father sat on the step below her with his hat on his knee. The stone was cold even in the dusk, and he didn’t seem to mind it. Below them the path ran down past the garden to the roadway where the Span began. Beyond the Span the gorge opened out grey and dry, with a thread of water at the bottom that caught the last of the light like wire.
