“Count,” Mara said.
“Counting,” Sera said.
“Orison. The pulse. At the higher load.”
“The pulse is ready,” Orison said. “At the load in the provision. When you strike, it will pass. And then it will pass again, at the heart’s rhythm, until you stop or the coupon fails.” A pause. “I am sorry that I cannot tell you what it will feel like.”
“You told me last time.”
“I have forgotten what I told you last time,” Orison said. “I am telling you again.”
Mara warmed the coupon first. The slow way: the torch far back, the soft fan of flame moving over the braid, minutes, not seconds, until the twisted sheen on its surface brightened and its three-note chord in the graft came up warm and clear. She took her time. She had learned that much from the flat note and the third weld.
She took her mother’s hammer from the harness pocket. Pale lines rose across the head as it neared the braid.
