Sect Year 5 · third month · night of day 3 · the forty-fifth life: Tallow Hill, her forty-first year
Orla kept her palm on the rush until it had gone cold under her hand, and then she went back to the table and sat down with her hands folded. The lamp on the doorstep had burned low. She hadn’t trimmed it again, because trimming meant looking away from the door, and she had decided some time ago that she wouldn’t look away from the door.
The step came up the path. It didn’t come straight. It stopped at the gatepost, where Harrin’s tag was pressed to the wood, and it stayed there long enough for her to count one slow breath. Then it came on.
Edan came in at the gate. He pushed it wide with his good shoulder and came up the path with the rake over his other shoulder, the iron tines up and wet with salt water. His right hand was bound in a salt-rag, and the rag had gone dark through from the heel of the palm to the first knuckle. His face was grey under the dirt. He stopped in the doorway with the rake’s head against the frame and looked in.
