Sect Year 5 · eighth month · night of day 30 · the fiftieth life: the Glass Shelf, his thirty-eighth year
Brisa was waiting on the landing at the top of the stair when Heddo came up from the walk. She had the lamp-book under one arm and a stub of white chalk in her fist, and her shawl was wrapped twice around her shoulders in a way that made her look smaller than she was. The light was almost gone from the high country. Along the glass the first lamps had been lit already, and their small flames sat in the panes like coins at the bottom of a well.
“It’s the last night of the eighth month,” she said. “We count.”
“I thought the count was only for the masters.”
“The masters walk ahead with the book, and the keepers say the names behind them. It’s been done that way for longer than there’s been a book.” She held out the chalk. “The watched ones were said by the people who paid, so we leave them to their watchers. We say the lamps that have gone dark since the last count, though, so nobody goes into the glass unnamed. You’ll say the names. I’ll touch the sills. Don’t read them from the page. Say them as you’d say them to somebody who was waiting at the door.”
