So, of the many words I painted for The Book, the first is the simplest and to me, the most ominous. I knew it even as I created it, leaning over the paper, tapping out the powdered gold and applying it to the edges of the honeyfletch flowers until the sunlight reflected in their painted veins dazzled my eyes.

That evening a Servant brought dinner to the room, and so engaged was I in the work that I did not realize how irregular such a thing was—or had they invited me and I did not remember turning down the invitation? It is hard to say; when the art is in me, I see little save myself and the page. But I was leaning back and stretching the aching muscles near my spine when the door opened again and Shame came, like the peaceless winds before a storm, a great agitation attending him, and in his wake Ajan, faithful and stern, as if his hours at Shame's side had made of him a sword... his master's ready weapon.

As I cleaned my brush, Shame stopped at my elbow and looked. And all that storm and restlessness fell away.

"Qet?" he said. "Not what I would have thought you would choose."

"No?" I asked politely, thinking that I was famished and didn't know why. But also that this was exactly what we should be doing, it being the dareleni. "And why not?"

"I would have thought you would choose something more obviously pertinent to our situation," Shame said. "May I...?"

I slipped off the stool to allow him to examine the piece; that is when I noticed the covered tray and was drawn to it immediately. I took up the bowl of soup and inhaled the fragrance: earthy and spicy, a clear brown broth with flecks of piquant green. I sipped it, then said, "You underestimate my subtlety."

"Or overestimate your anxiousness," Shame said, amused, but he was deeply occupied by the art. It was pleasing, to see someone giving it such a thoughtful scrutiny. Sadly even among a contemplative people it can be rare for someone to truly consider the work an artist has put into his piece. There is a look in someone's eye when they are seeking themselves in your work... and a very different look when they are seeking what you put in it instead.

"You think me anxious!" I said finally.

He looked up from the painting, brows lifted. "I know you are anxious, Calligrapher."

I huffed, ears flicking back. And then chuckled, a little unwillingly. "Well, I suppose I am."

"So," he said. "Qet. Why?"

"You tell me," I challenged, amused now, as if he had passed his mood to me.

"Because the relationship Qenain's members has with it has been disrupted," Shame said, almost dismissive.

"If it's so obvious," I said, unperturbed, "why are you surprised?"

It was a fair question. I could tell by the way he paused, eyes losing their focus. When he spoke, his voice had less of that arrogance. "This is an ancient word for an ancient concept," he said, tracing his thumb along the edge of the paper; I was grateful he was not smearing his skin oils on the surface but worried that he would cut himself. "It is foundational, qet. That is why I was surprised. I expected you to begin with the ornamentation, and only gradually work yourself to the cause. But—" He looked at me then, eyes keen and seeking, "I see that it is exactly backwards, isn't it. It is I who begin with the ornament, with what can be seen on the outside, and work my way to the root. And you... you must begin with the foundation, and work your way outward, to the ornament."

I drank of the broth: to appease my stomach, a little; to hide my flush a great deal. We preserved my dignity thus.

"But then, why the flowers," Shame murmured.

"I am eager to hear your analysis," I said.

He glanced up at me then and laughed. And then his eyes sharpened. He frowned. "You are eating."

I looked at the bowl. "Yes?"

"Did no one ask you to dinner?" he said. "I was in conference, so I missed the hour. But you have been here all this time, yes?"

"Yessss," I said slowly, looking at the bowl, then at the tray.

"That," Ajan said, speaking for the first time, "is beyond strange. So strange, in fact, that I believe I shall investigate." At my look, he smiled and said, "a hungry Guardian who has missed his own meal might learn a great deal from the kitchen Servants. With permission, master."

"Go," Shame said.

Ajan bowed and excused himself.

Seeing my gaze follow him out, Shame said, "He will be fine. Ajan is deft at the work."

"He has great poise for someone so young," I said.

"He is a great help," Shame agreed.

"Do you groom him to replace you?" I asked, surprising myself with the question.

Shame glanced at me. Then smiled. "Do you think me so old, then, that I already need a successor?"

I made a noncommittal noise. "Your work is hard on a person," I said, setting aside the cup and taking up a small plate of delicate vegetables rolls. "Do you imagine doing it when you are elderly?"

"I have to imagine that time and experience will only make me better at my work," Shame said, folding his hands together on the top edge of the shabati. He had good hands. Not as long as mine, but strong; even from here I could see the sinew, the definition of muscle and vein across the tops of the hand, the knuckles. "Is that not the way it goes, Calligrapher? Our understanding deepens as we age."

I would get nowhere with that line, I thought, and it brushed uncomfortably close to uncertainties I'd been entertaining about my own future, doubts so painful I had barely articulated them to myself. I had no desire to expose them to Shame. "Did you learn anything while you were out?"

"Not directly," he said. "I spent the time overseeing the care of the senior researcher and speaking with the visiting physician." His eyes returned to my painting. "Though the reaction of those I met I found illuminating."

"And what did you deduce?" I wondered as I tried one of the vegetable rolls. It was superb: thin slices of greens, seasoned and wrapped so thinly I could see the ghost of their color through the edible paper. It tasted like the first flush of spring.

"They are flustered," Shame said. "This is the first such extremity they have witnessed. But they are not surprised, Calligrapher. So it is not the first irregularity. And to a one, they are unsettled... and many of them distracted."

"So we know exactly what we did before," I said. "That there is something wrong."

He chuckled. "Not precisely. We know a little of the nuance of it." He slid off the chair. "I shall leave you to the meal."

"It's the dareleni," I said.

"I am not going out," he replied. "I am going to draw myself a bath."

Something about his tone... I narrowed my eyes. "And?"

"And then I will go out. After you sleep, and the dareleni is ended," he said, amused.

Exasperated, I said, "People are supposed to rest at night. That category does include you."

"At night," Shame said, "those too restless to sleep will be on their feet and wandering the halls, and if they run into Shame, they will speak to him of things they might not dare while the sun is bright." He grinned. "Besides, what do you think I'll be doing in the bath?"

"As long as you don't drowse off in it and drown," I muttered.

"Truly, Farren, I would know you for a father even without being told, from the way you hover."

I stopped eating. Indeed, I set the half-eaten roll on the plate and set it aside, folding my hands in my lap.

Unexpectedly, this brought him not just before me, but crouching there, one knee down, the other raised. He looked up into my face from that angle, the only angle that would have allowed it since I had my face cast down. It gave me a fine view of his expression.