Chapter 62. Lessons in Gravity

Morning belonged to Orla.

She took me to the upper terraces where the wind makes honest promises and the herbs keep their own calendars. She set a stone in the center square, then set me on it.

“Three knots,” she said. “Name them.”

“Mate. Land. Pack.”

“Good,” she said. “Spine is the rope. Breath is the hand. Body is the door. Say it.”

“Spine is the rope,” I said. “Breath is the hand. Body is the door.”

“Again,” she said, until the words wore grooves big enough to plant in.

She walked circles around the stone and flicked my ankle with a stick when my knees locked and popped my sternum with two fingers when my breath went shallow.

“Not a statue,” she said. “A hinge. A hinge with a spine stands. A hinge without one is kindling.”

Leaf lay at the edge of the square, chin on paws, eyes never leaving me. When my focus drifted, he stood and placed one paw on my foot as if to pin me to the world.

“Good,” Orla said without looking. “