On the evening of Day 63, the Venn kitchen was stripped of pottery ledgers and clay tools.
Across the scrubbed oak boards of the supper table, Kezra Venn laid two clean sheets of heavy rag paper. Not the magical rag paper of her bonded notebook. But plain, honest sheets made from boiled linen rags by the paper-maker down at the mill, with zero magic in their fibers.
An animal fat lamp burned in a brass saucer between the sheets. It cast a warm, steady circle of yellow light across the grain. Paxa Sel sat at the right-hand corner with her medical logbook open, her bone inkhorn uncorked. Fellis Dain leaned against the chimney breast with his carving knife, notching a spare cedar ruler. Meanwhile, Yseld Arken sat on the bench with her arms crossed, watching the door.
Kezra dipped her iron-nibbed pen into the dark oak-ink.
“On the first expedition,” Kezra began, her voice carrying clearly in the quiet room, “I walked out of Kilnstep believing that finding Davren was a matter of wanting him home badly enough. I believed that every time the road got steep, or every time my water ran low. That turned back was a form of cowardice. That was how I ended up standing six paces from an unshielded sounding rod in Saltglass. That’s why half my head is locked in quiet tonight.”
