Sect Year 5 · eighth month · night of day 30 · the fiftieth life: the Glass Shelf, his thirty-eighth year
The young man sat on the stool with the purse across his knees. He hadn’t opened it. Brisa had come to the door of the third house and held out her hand for the silver, and he had given it to her without a word. She had written the sum in the book and torn a strip of grey paper from the back, with the lamp-stamp pressed into one corner. He had folded the receipt twice and put it inside his coat. Then he had sat down, as if his legs had decided for him.
“Dunnet,” Brisa read from the open book. She held it to the light from the window. “Boatman. Lost off the cliff road in the cold water under the shelf, at the turn of the spring tide. Is that the name you gave?”
“Dunnet.” The young man’s voice came out rough. “He was my brother. He took the boat out to the rocks under the shelf, as he always did. The rope went under the keel and would not come free. The crew said they had to cut it. They cut it, and the boat went on without him.” He looked down at the purse. “I was on the cliff road with the cart. I could have come down.”
