On Wednesday morning Alan discovered that muscles could file complaints in writing.

Every part of him had a grievance. His shoulders objected to Monday. His thighs, which had been quietly furious since the thousandth cut, now announced their position in the form of sharp little protests whenever he tried to climb a stair. His palms had blistered in neat red ovals where the practice sword had rubbed, and when he flexed his fingers over breakfast, a small bright pain traveled up each wrist like a spark through wire.

-- You are walking like a crab, -- observed Tobias, around a mouthful of toast.

-- I am walking normally.

-- Sideways. With your knees together. It is like watching a very sad piece of furniture try to leave a room.

-- It is a mild strain from physical training.

-- At four o'clock in the morning? -- Tobias lowered his toast, round-faced and concerned. -- Alan, I heard you leave on Monday. I did not say anything. But you have been sneaking out like a thief all week. Is it a girl?

-- It is not a girl, -- said Alan, with the feeling of a man answering truthfully and being hopelessly misunderstood.

-- Oh. -- Tobias brightened. -- Is it a boy?

-- It is neither. It is a... private study regimen.

-- Ah. -- Tobias nodded wisely. -- A very secret, very sweaty private study regimen. Understood. I will say nothing. -- He leaned forward and whispered, -- Your secret is safe with me and my ember mouse.

The ember mouse, in his pocket, squeaked its agreement. Alan thanked him with great solemnity and fled to his first lecture, where he sat in the back, propped up by pure stubbornness, and tried to take notes with hands that did not wish to hold a pencil.

-- Your grip is still wrong, -- said Valeria, with a sniff, from somewhere in his skull. -- You are choking the shaft. Even on a writing implement.

-- Please, Senior. I am in class.

-- Then sit properly. You are sloping.

-- I am not sloping.

-- You are sloping at an angle of approximately twelve degrees.

-- Leave him be, Valeria, -- said a warm voice, soft and weary and entirely gracious. -- The poor dear has been sore for two days. He needs gentleness, not geometry.

-- He needs correct posture.

-- He needs tea, -- said Seraphina.

It was a statement of fact, delivered with such serene finality that Alan found himself nodding in the middle of a lecture on ley-line classification.

By late afternoon his appointment with Wednesday had arrived.

The place she had selected, with a great deal of quiet insistence, was the Chapel of the Quiet Hour, a tiny forgotten annex that clung to the north wall of the main chapel like a barnacle on a ship. It had been a private prayer room for the academy's founders, then a storeroom, then a place where nothing was kept and nobody went. Alan had to push through a curtain of dead ivy to reach the door. Inside it smelled of beeswax and cold stone and very old dust. A narrow window of colored glass threw a slanting rectangle of amber across a floor of worn flagstones. Against one wall stood a small stone altar, its surface bare, and in front of it, a prayer cushion that was just thick enough to be called a cushion.

He had brought what she asked for. A borrowed copper kettle, which Tobias had surrendered with the air of a man who knew better than to ask. A small spirit lamp. A paper packet of dried herbs that had cost him four silver bits at the apothecary on Candlewick Lane, where an elderly woman had looked at the list he handed her, raised her eyebrows, and said, -- Somebody knows their business. Whoever wrote this has a very particular palate.

He set the kettle on the altar, lit the lamp, and knelt on the cold floor. His palm found the stone. He felt for the warmth in his chest.

-- Seraphina, -- he said. -- Please come out.

The light was gold, warm and soft as candle flame in a window. It did not burst. It bloomed, slowly and generously, spreading outward across the stone like honey poured on bread, and out of it, with great composure, a woman stepped onto the flagstones as though entering a drawing room.

She was tall, though not as tall as Valeria, and everything about her was soft in a way that seemed deliberate. Her hair fell to her waist, a rich ripple of gold the color of wheat at harvest. Her dress was a long white priestess robe, simple and perfectly pressed, belted at the waist with a thin cord of gold thread. Her face was serene and lovely and calm, the kind of face that appears on the walls of cathedrals. She folded her hands in front of her, fingers interlaced, back perfectly straight, and smiled.

It was a very beautiful smile. It was round, and even, and complete, and it did not move at all.

-- Alan, -- said Seraphina. -- Dear. How good it is to see you with my own eyes.

-- Good afternoon, Senior Seraphina. I brought the herbs.

-- So you did. So you did. -- She looked at the kettle, and the lamp, and the little paper packet, and her smile deepened by a degree that he felt rather than saw. -- Four silver bits. The woman on Candlewick Lane charges honest prices. I approve. Please sit down, dear. You are standing like a man waiting to be sentenced.

He sat. Seraphina took the kettle from the altar and poured with the unhurried precision of a woman who had done it a thousand times before. The herbs bloomed in the hot water, curling green and gold. A scent rose into the cold air of the chapel, mint and chamomile and something faintly sweet, and Alan felt something tight in the back of his neck loosen a quarter turn.

-- Your hands, -- said Seraphina.

-- I beg your pardon?

-- Give me your hands.

It was phrased as a question. It had the shape of a question, the lilt, the polite upward turn at the end. But there was no question in it, and Alan, who had spent a childhood learning the difference between invitations and orders, found his hands lifting from his lap before he had decided anything.

She took them in hers.

Her palms were warm, softer than he had expected, and very steady. She turned his hands over and bent her head to examine them, and for a moment she said nothing at all. The blisters glistened red against his skin. Her thumbs moved over them with a light, careful pressure, and a pale gold glow gathered beneath her fingers.

It did not hurt. It was the opposite of pain, like warm water poured over a bruise. The sting drained away from his palms. The tight red skin eased and cooled. Alan let out a breath he had not known he was holding, and his shoulders lowered, almost against his will, a full inch.

-- There, -- said Seraphina softly. -- There, dear. Is that better?

-- Much better. Thank you, Senior.

-- It is nothing. It is my entire purpose. -- She did not let go. -- Who did this to you?

-- It is only blisters, Senior. From the practice sword.

-- Of course. Valeria's work. -- Her thumbs moved, slowly, over the same spot. -- I am sure she meant well. She does. It is the great tragedy of her character that she always means well. But these are not minor, you see. They have been sitting for two days. They might have become infected. They might have scarred. You might have lost some sensation in your fingertips.

-- I do not think they would have...

-- One cannot tell. One simply cannot tell. -- A very small, very patient sigh. -- It is best to be thorough. I will need a little more time, to be certain.

She continued to hold his hands. The gold glow gathered and brightened, though the blisters, Alan noticed, had already healed completely. He watched the light play along the backs of his fingers. It struck him as a little odd, in a distant and unimportant way, that she should be so thorough over something so finished.

-- Third time she has gone over the same spot, -- murmured Nyx, drowsily, from somewhere in the back of his skull. -- I am counting.

-- Do not count, -- said Seraphina, sweetly, without turning her head.

-- I am only observing.

-- Observe more quietly.

Alan cleared his throat. -- Senior Seraphina, I believe my hands are well.

-- Another moment, dear. I am only making certain. -- She released his left hand, kept his right, and lifted her gaze to his face. Her eyes were a deep clear amber-gold, kind and calm and entirely without blinking. -- Tell me, Alan. Has anyone touched you?

Alan stared.

-- I... am sorry?

-- Since Sunday. Has anyone touched you? In any way. A hand on the shoulder. A brush of the arm. A, ah. -- A tiny pause, like a stitch dropped from a perfect seam. -- A hand on the wrist.

The chapel had gone very quiet. Alan was aware of the lamp's low hiss, and the slow tick of the cooling kettle, and a thin cold thread of understanding that began somewhere in the back of his brain and refused to be ignored.

-- Nyx took my pulse on Sunday, -- he said slowly. -- In the stairwell. After the registration. It was a, ah, courtesy.

-- Of course. -- Seraphina smiled, and it did not change by so much as a hair. -- A courtesy. I understand. Did she hold it long?

-- I do not recall.

-- Three seconds, -- said Priscilla's drawl, helpfully, from the depths of the Lobby. -- I measured it. It was three point two.

-- Thank you, Priscilla, -- said Seraphina.

-- You are welcome. I take pride in my data.

-- And Valeria, -- continued Seraphina, gently, as though nothing had interrupted. -- On Monday. She adjusted your grip. And your forehead, I believe, for a moment. And you were close for most of the session. How many minutes?

-- Senior...

-- And how long did you sleep, dear? On Monday night? You were restless. I could feel it. You did not sleep before one. And on Tuesday, in the tower, you sat with Priscilla for the better part of an hour, did you not? Alone? In a closed room? What did she examine? Did she touch you? Did she hurt you? You do not have to be polite, you know. You may tell me. I am only asking because I care.

It was a very soft voice. It was warm as milk. The questions came one after another, gently, with a faint tremor beneath them that he could almost have mistaken for fear, if it had not been so beautifully controlled. And each question was a little closer than the last, and a little more specific, until Alan felt the walls of the little chapel leaning in.

-- Where did you eat? -- said Seraphina. -- Did you eat? What did you have? Who sat beside you? Did anyone else give you food? Did you take anything from anyone? Anything at all?

-- That is not a question, -- said Valeria's voice, flat and hard, from the Lobby. -- That is interrogation.

-- I am merely concerned.

-- You are not concerned. You are cross-examining a first-year student like a captured spy.

-- It is care.

-- It is a surplus of care, -- said Nyx, lazily. -- A very generous surplus. Possibly an overdose. I would like a second opinion.

-- You may not have one, -- said Seraphina sweetly. Her smile grew a shade brighter. It was a perfectly lovely smile. It was also, Alan noted with detached professional interest, the smile of a person who would very much like to throw something. -- I am only asking what any attentive guardian would ask. Alan does not mind. Do you, dear?

He looked at her. He looked at the gold of her eyes, and the tightness at the corners of her mouth, and her hand still wrapped around his, grip loosening and tightening in small anxious pulses. A thousand memories moved behind his face, a childhood of questions asked in kind voices. Where were you? Who were you with? What did you take? How much did it cost? Each of them wrapped in sweetness and delivered with a smile.

It was not that she was cruel. It was that she was kind in the exact shape of a cage, and Alan, who had lived in such cages, recognized the bars.

He drew his hand out of hers.

He did it gently, but deliberately, and the glow around her fingers flickered and went out. For a moment Seraphina's hand hung in the air, palm up. Then she folded it, very neatly, against her robe.

-- Senior Seraphina, -- said Alan, in the flat quiet voice he used when his heart was racing. -- Thank you for the healing. It is much appreciated. As far as I recall, the Agreement contains no clause requiring me to report my physical contacts or my meals. I do not believe the questions fall within its scope. If you would like to propose an amendment, I will gladly consider it.

-- An amendment, -- said Seraphina.

-- Yes.

-- I see. -- She looked at him. The smile stayed where it was. Her hands, folded in front of her, tightened until the knuckles showed pale against the white cloth. -- You are being very proper.

-- I am trying to be fair to everyone.

-- Of course you are. -- She lifted the kettle, and poured another cup of tea, and the stream of hot water wavered very slightly. -- You are a fair boy. A very fair boy. -- She set the cup down in front of him, and it was filled right to the brim, trembling on the edge of overflowing. -- Drink. It will help.

He took it. It was the right temperature, exactly. It was a little sweeter than the herbs he had bought, with a faint warm undertone he could not name, and he held the cup in both hands and drank it slowly, because it seemed unwise to refuse. Beneath the sweetness there was something that tasted like care, and something that tasted like fear, and he could not have said which was stronger.

-- Please allow me to settle the cost of the herbs, -- he said, once the cup was empty. -- And the healing. I would feel more comfortable if I could pay my debts.

-- You owe nothing, dear.

-- I would prefer to owe nothing.

-- ... Of course, -- said Seraphina, after a pause. -- Of course you would. -- Her voice had dropped very slightly in pitch. -- It is quite all right. I understand.

She did not understand, Alan thought. She understood that he had said no. She did not understand why. And the thing that unsettled him most was not the questions, or the smile, or the very careful healing, but the way her fingers had curled in her lap, as though she were holding on to something that was already gone.

The next twenty minutes were quiet.

She taught him a ward. It was a small thing, a shield of pale gold light no bigger than a dinner plate, which she showed him how to raise with one hand, and which he failed at eleven times before the twelfth attempt flickered into being. She was a very good teacher, patient and precise, and when she corrected him, it was with soft words and light, quick touches to his elbow or his wrist, never any more than necessary. She did not smile any wider. She did not ask any more questions. She simply watched him, with steady golden eyes, and said, -- Again, dear, -- in the same warm voice every time.

It was, he thought, nearly as unbearable as the interrogation.

With five minutes left in the session, the glow around her began to thin. The flagstones beneath her feet showed faintly through the hem of her robe. She looked down at her own hands, translucent at the edges, and for the first time since she had stepped into the chapel, her expression slipped.

-- Alan, -- she said.

It was not the voice she had used all afternoon. It was lower, a little uneven, as though it had been drawn up from somewhere deeper. She was looking at him, and her hands had begun to twist in the thin cord at her waist.

-- Alan. You will be careful tomorrow. With Nyx. Will you not? She is a, she has a way of... -- She stopped. Her fingers tightened on the cord. -- You will tell me if anything happens. Will you not? You will tell me. You promise?

-- Senior...

-- You will tell me if anything happens, -- she said again, and he realized that she had asked him the same thing twice in the space of a breath. Her voice was thin and fast. -- You will promise.

-- I will be fine, Senior Seraphina.

-- That is not a promise.

-- It is a statement of probability.

There was a very small, very strange silence. Then Seraphina drew a sharp breath, and the strain in her face vanished like a hand drawn across a slate. The serenity came back, smooth and perfect.

-- Dear, -- she said. -- Of course. Forgive me. I am an old woman who worries too much. It is a flaw of my profession. -- She smiled, and it was the old smile again, round and warm and shut. -- You should rest. You have a long day tomorrow.

The gold light folded back into his chest. The little chapel was empty, and cold, and quiet. The cup sat on the altar beside the kettle, rimmed with a faint ring of tea.

Alan stood where he was for a long moment, with his hands at his sides, listening to the sound of his own breathing.

-- She dropped the honorific, -- said Priscilla, quietly, in the Lobby. -- Did you notice? Twice. At the end. She said your name with no softening. And she forgot the formal register in the same sentence.

-- I noticed, -- said Alan, lying.

-- You did not. You were looking at the kettle.

-- I was looking at the kettle because I did not know where else to look.

-- That, -- said Priscilla, with a rare note of something almost like sympathy, -- is perfectly rational. I would have looked at the kettle too.

He rubbed the back of his neck. He felt strangely wrung out, as though he had spent a long afternoon not being hurt, which was in its own way the most tiring thing he knew. The ward he had learned still sat in the back of his hands, a faint warm memory of gold. He thought of the cup filled to the brim. He thought of the hand held out in the air, palm up, folding closed.

-- I should not have said that, -- he said, very quietly. -- About the amendment. It was unkind.

-- It was accurate, -- said Valeria.

-- It was both.

-- Yes, -- said Valeria, after a moment, grudgingly. -- It often is.

The sun was sinking behind the north wall. The colored glass in the little window turned from amber to rose to a deep wine red, and the shadow of the altar stretched long across the flagstones. Alan picked up the kettle, and the lamp, and the paper packet, and carried them out through the curtain of dead ivy into the cold air.

-- Tomorrow, -- said Nyx's voice, drifting up from the back of his mind in a cheerful, lazy, entirely unrepentant drawl, -- is Thursday. Wear something you can fall down in, kid. You are going to learn how it feels to be caught from behind.

-- Please, Senior Nyx, I have only just recovered from...

-- No, no. It is educational. It is for your own safety. -- A delighted pause. -- And also very funny.

Alan sighed. It was the sigh of a man who had begun the week hoping for a quiet life and was beginning, with a sinking and unmistakable certainty, to understand that quiet had left the building.

Somewhere deep in his chest, very faintly, so faintly he might have imagined it, a warm voice murmured, -- I will be watching. -- And in the dusk, as he walked back toward the dormitory with a borrowed kettle in his hands, Alan could not decide whether it was a promise or a threat.