Hale closed his eyes and shook his head, which was probably the closest I would ever get to a victory over his composure.
“Training clothes,” he said. “Every first-year room has them.”
“You left that out of the tour.”
“I assumed you would put your current clothes in the furniture designed for it.”
“Everyone here makes a lot of assumptions about me, it seems.”
He looked away, toward the rack of staves.
“There are spare clothes in the cabinet. Change behind the screen.”
The screen was folded against the wall near the equipment cabinet. Hale opened the cabinet, took out linen, canvas, cloth shoes, and set them on the bench without looking at me.
“This might be worse than Linden’s inquisition.”
“Don’t say that.”
Hale’s voice killed the joke in the air.
“Right.”
I took the clothes behind the screen.
The linen shirt was plain, the canvas trousers too long until I rolled the cuffs twice, and the cloth shoes made me feel like I had borrowed someone else’s feet. I left my dress and coat folded over the back of the screen, my mother’s wren hidden inside the coat pocket.
When I came out, Hale had changed too.
No coat. Sleeves rolled to the forearm. I saw the Mark there: dark, narrow, controlled into lines so severe they looked cut rather than born. It held still when he looked at me.
Mine still answered, barely.
The Pull caught at my throat with the controlled force of something trained not to move and moving anyway.
Hale saw me feel it and looked away. But his throat worked like he’d felt it too.
He jerked his chin at the floor. “Take the short stave.”
I picked it up. It was heavier than it looked.
“Stand on the line.”
I walked up to the white chalk line and toed it.
Hale crossed the floor toward me.
He stopped three feet away.
“Show me what you know.”
I stared at the stave in my hands.
“I know this is a stick.”
“Good. That’s a start.”
“That was a joke.”
