Clement rode to Alrin’s house early one cold afternoon, alone and unexpected. Marga must have been out, for the storyteller opened the door and admitted her without comment. She was not wearing her performance clothes, but Alrin’s tailor certainly had been exercising his skills on her: her wool suit was austere, not impractical, and very flattering. Clement had been curious what possessed the courtesan to take in this unconventional lodger, but, watching the uncanny woman go up the stairs to announce Clement’s presence, it occurred to Clement that Akin might simply be indulging in a passion for exotic decoration.

“She asks you to come upstairs,” said the storyteller when she returned.

“You did tell her–?”

“Business. As you said.”

Clement made her own way to Alrin’s room. The courtesan lay in bed, supported by pillows, with the lamp lit and an account book beside her. Her round belly jutted before her. “You’re not well?” Clement said.

Alrin waved a graceful hand. “Oh, it’s nothing. Marga made me see the midwife, and now I must lie abed all day. I’m sure you wish that you might suffer so.”

Clement was particularly glad that she had managed to bring a gift, which she now unpacked from its makeshift wrappings. The pottery cup was no more than a broken discard found outside the refectory. The cup was full of plain water and ordinary stones, but the bulb planted in it had bravely and insouciantly put forth its buds, and just that morning one of the buds had cracked open to release a pale pink flower.

Alrin exclaimed, “Oh, what a scent! How did you convince it to bloom so early?”

“Soldier’s secret.” Clement set the broken cup with its perfumed contents on the nearby table. As she stood at the foot of the bed, watching Alrin breathe in the scent again and again, each time with fresh pleasure, she had the amazed idea that perhaps she had accomplished one worthwhile, though extremely small, thing this year.

“What do you want from me?” Alrin finally asked.

“I would like,” Clement said, “to adopt your child.”

“Surely you are not serious.”

“Very serious.” Clement looked around, found a chair nearby, drew it closer to the bed, and sat in it. “How much will it take?”

“You could start by being a man,” Alrin said.

This directness was new, and very strange. Perhaps, since Alrin’s retirement had been thrust upon her early by this illness, she had begun to practice bluntness in preparation for her new career.

Clement said, “If I had pretended to be acting as Cadmar’s intermediary, you’d give me the child, and never know the money wasn’t his.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Of course not.”

They both were silent. The heady scent of the newly opened flower gradually filled the room.

Alrin finally said, “I’m stunned by this proposal.”

That was when Clement knew she had a chance, for if there had been no hope, Alrin would have simply refused. Clement said, “If I were a man, how much would it take to outbid the other candidates?”

Alrin rather delicately named a sum.

Clement offered substantially more than that.

Alrin looked involuntarily at her closed account book.

Clement stood up. “Let me know when you have made up your mind. I have a journey to make in a few days, and may be gone from the garrison for some time. But Gilly will act as my agent in my absence, and he has access to my funds.”

Alrin said in some surprise, “Is he your brother?”

Clement felt rather blank. But surely it should have been a simple question? She finally answered, “Gilly is what I have.”

Chapter Twenty‑Five

On any night, Garland might open his eyes to the glow of Medric’s candle, a red blur behind the curtain that divided the attic. Medric’s pen might be scratching, or he might be steadily, rhythmically turning the pages of a book, or he might be mixing a new batch of ink. Sometimes he muttered to himself, and Garland might wonder sleepily how anyone could possibly work in such cold. One night, though, Garland awakened to Medric’s voice, raised in excitement, and Emil’s voice, moderately responding. Garland got up, and peered cautiously through the curtain. Emil sat on the edge of the bed with a sheaf of papers on his knees. Medric, lenses aglow with candlelight, talked wildly, his long, thin fingers flickering in the cold air.

Emil spotted Garland and said wryly, “Sometimes we have nights like this. There’s no point in begging him to be quiet.”

“Oh, my brother!” Medric cried. “It’s finished! And you can read it, too!”

Garland said groggily, “I stillcan’t read.” For although he had been sharing Leeba’s alphabet lessons, he suspected he had quite a distance to go.

“But Emil will read it to you. He’s a fine reader.”

Emil tugged at the tangle of blankets. “Do get in the bed, Garland, and listen for a while. I would consider it a great favor.”

The effort of getting the bedding straightened out was enough to wake Garland up completely. “Blessed day,” Emil grumbled, shivering in his underclothes. “How did these blankets get to be such a mess? And Medric, why must you and I always be condemned to the one room without a fireplace?”

“It’s for the books, really,” said Medric. “They like it airy.”

“But why must we sleep with them? A man might be forgiven for wishing he might occasionally be just a little comfortable.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Medric admonished him. “Not a little, not even for a moment! Shaftal is a discomforting mistress!”

Garland got rather self‑consciously under the blankets, which were extremely heavy but not at all warm, and Emil tucked a stale‑smelling pillow under his head. “That was a remarkable thing you did with that fowl tonight,” he said. Beyond him, Medric bounced excitedly on his toes, apparently trying to jump out of his skin. “I have to say,” continued Emil, “it’s a pleasure to see Karis finally putting on that weight she lost from being sick this spring. She was looking an awful lot like a smoke addict again, and I was finding it unsettling. Present miseries are bad enough, without always being reminded of past ones.”

Garland said, “Karis used to look like a smoke addict? Why?”

“Because she was one.” Emil got under the blankets beside Garland, and muttered, “Well, thatwas hardly worth the effort. Do you think we have even a hope of becoming warm?”

Garland, trying and failing to imagine Karis as one of those numbed, obsessed, starved, shadow‑people that in the last few years had become increasingly rare in Shaftal, replied rather vaguely, “No hope at all.”

“What is the matter, Medric?” said Emil innocently.

Medric pushed the sheaf of papers at him. “I beg you! Read! In your clear, compelling, quavering–”

“–candid, cantankerous–” said Emil.

“–querulous voice!”

Smiling, Emil picked up the first page and held it at an angle to capture the candle light. “A History of My Father’s People,” he read. “Being an Account of the Sainnites, and How They Came to Shaftal, a Discussion of How to Understand Them, and Why They are Doomed.”

He put down the sheet and rubbed his eyes. “A very specific and compelling title. Who could resist reading the book?”

Medric rubbed his hands gleefully. “I should think that no one could resist! And at this time of year, there’s nothing else to do anyway, and thanks to the Sainnites, there’s nothing to read.”

“They can cook,” interjected Garland.

“While someone reads to them.”

“And fix things,” said Emil.

“But someone will read to them while they work! Twenty or thirty people at once might hear a single reading. And then they’ll bring it to their neighbors, who will bring it to their neighbors… !” Unable to contain himself, Medric leapt to his feet, with the quilt in which he was wrapped trailing him like a cloak. But the attic was filled with books–floor to ceiling–and he could only walk three paces before he ran into a pile of stacked crates. Nose to nose with the crate, he cried, “We’ll print five hundred copies! And two hundred thousand people will have read it by spring mud!”