Chapter 67

On the last day of November, Master Thale washed his hands.

He did it at the end of every session, always the same way: the basin on its iron stand by the door, the cake of yellow soap, the towel folded in thirds on the rail. He turned his back to do it. In a year, it was the only time he ever turned his back on me.

The spike stood on the near corner of his table: an iron point on a lead foot, with the day’s slips pushed down onto it. Water to the upper row. Bread withheld, fourth cell, left. Blanket refused. Every one in his hand, small and dry and leaning backward, and every one entered in his ledger before he tore it out. In the morning the day guard carried the spike up to the gate at the turn of the stair, and the sergeant there read the slips out and did as they said. Nobody argues with a hand like that. It looks as if it has never once been wrong.

My slip was folded flat inside the hem of my sleeve. It had been there all session.

While the water