The Wise Man's Fear

CHAPTER SEVEN Admissions

The next morning I splashed some water on my face and trudged downstairs. The taproom of Anker’s was just starting to fill with people looking for an early lunch, and a few particularly disconsolate students were getting an early start on the day’s drinking.

Still bleary from lack of sleep, I settled into my usual corner table and began to fret about my upcoming interview.

Kilvin and Elxa Dal didn’t worry me. I was ready for their questions. The same was largely true of Arwyl. But the other masters were all varying degrees of mystery to me.

Every term each master put a selection of books on display in Tomes, the reading room in the Archives. There were basic texts for the low-ranking E’lir to study from, with progressively more advanced works for Re’lar and El’the. Those books revealed what the masters considered valuable knowledge. Those were the books a clever student studied before admissions.

But I couldn’t wander into Tomes like everyone else. I was the only student who had been banned from the Archives in a dozen years, and everyone knew about it. Tomes was the only well-lit room in the whole building, and during admissions there were always people there, reading.

So I was forced to find copies of the masters’ texts buried in the Stacks. You’d be amazed how many versions of the same book there can be. If I was lucky, the volume I found was identical to the one the master had set aside in Tomes. More often, the versions I found were outdated, expurgated, or badly translated.

I’d done as much reading as possible over the last few nights, but hunting down the books took precious time, and I was still woefully underprepared.

I was lost in these anxious thoughts when Anker’s voice caught my attention. “Actually, that’s Kvothe right over there,” he said.

I looked up to see a woman sitting at the bar. She wasn’t dressed like a student. She wore an elaborate burgundy dress with long skirts, a tight waist, and matching burgundy gloves that rose all the way to her elbows.

Moving deliberately, she managed to get down off the stool without tangling her feet and made her way over to stand next to my table. Her blonde hair was artfully curled, and her lips were a deeply painted red. I couldn’t help wondering what she was doing in a place like Anker’s.

“Are you the one who broke the arm of that brat Ambrose Jakis?” she asked. She spoke Aturan with a thick, musical Modegan accent. While it made her a little difficult to understand, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find it attractive. The Modegan accent practically sweats sex.

“I did,” I said. “It wasn’t entirely on purpose. But I did.”

“Then you must let me buy you a drink,” she said in the tone of a woman who usually gets her way.

I smiled at her, wishing I’d been awake more than ten minutes so my wits weren’t quite so fuddled. “You wouldn’t be the first to buy me one on that account,” I said honestly. “If you insist, I’ll have a Greysdale mead.”

I watched her turn and walk back to the bar. If she was a student, she was new. If she’d been here more than a handful of days I would have heard about it from Sim, who kept tabs on all the prettiest girls in town, courting them with artless enthusiasm.

The Modegan woman returned a moment later and sat across from me, sliding a wooden mug across the table. Anker must have just finished washing it, as the fingers of her burgundy glove were wet where they had gripped the handle.

She raised her own glass, filled with a deep red wine. “To Ambrose Jakis,” she said with sudden fierceness. “May he fall into a well and die.”

I picked up the mug and took a drink, wondering if there was a woman within fifty miles of the University Ambrose hadn’t treated badly. I wiped my hand discreetly on my pants.

The woman took a deep drink of her wine and set her glass down hard. Her pupils were huge. Early as it was, she must have already been doing a fair piece of drinking.

I could suddenly smell nutmeg and plum. I sniffed at my mug, then looked at the tabletop, thinking someone might have spilled a drink. But there was nothing.

The woman across from me suddenly burst into tears. This was no gentle weeping, either. It was like someone had turned a spigot.

She looked down at her gloved hands and shook her head. She peeled off the wet one, looked at me, and sobbed out a dozen words of Modegan.

“I’m sorry,” I said helplessly. “I don’t speak—”

But she was already pushing herself up and away from the table. Wiping at her face, she ran for the door.

Anker stared at me from behind the bar, as did everyone else in the room.

“That was not my fault,” I said, pointing at the door. “She went crazy on her own.”

I would have followed her and tried to unravel it all, but she was already outside, and my admissions interview was less than an hour away. Besides, if I tried to help every woman Ambrose had ever traumatized, I wouldn’t have time left for eating or sleeping.

On the upside, the bizarre encounter seemed to have cleared my head, and I no longer felt gritty and thick with lack of sleep. I decided I might as well take advantage of it and get admissions out of the way. Sooner begun is sooner done, as my father used to say.

On my way to Hollows, I stopped to buy a golden brown meat pie from a vender’s cart. I knew I’d need every penny for this term’s tuition, but the price of a decent meal wasn’t going to make much difference one way or the other. It was hot and solid, full of chicken and carrot and sage. I ate it while I walked, reveling in the small freedom of buying something according to my taste rather than making do with whatever Anker happened to have at hand.

As I finished the last bit of crust, I smelled honeyed almonds. I bought a large scoop in a clever pouch made from a dried corn husk. It cost me four drabs, but I hadn’t had honeyed almonds in years, and some sugar in my blood wouldn’t hurt when I was answering questions.

The line for admissions wound through the courtyard. Not abnormally long, but irritating nonetheless. I saw a familiar face from the Fishery and went to stand next to a young, green-eyed woman who was waiting to queue up as well.

“Hello there,” I said. “You’re Amlia, aren’t you?”

She gave me a nervous smile and a nod.

“I’m Kvothe,” I said, making a tiny bow.

“I know who you are,” she said. “I’ve seen you in the Artificery.”

“You should call it the Fishery,” I said. I held out the pouch. “Would you like a honey almond?”

Amlia shook her head.

“They’re really good,” I said, joggling them enticingly in the corn-husk pouch.

She reached out hesitantly and took one.

“Is this the line for noon?” I asked, gesturing.

She shook her head. “We’ve got another couple minutes before we can even line up.”

“It’s ridiculous that they make us stand around like this,” I said. “Like sheep in a paddock. This entire process is a waste of everyone’s time and insulting to boot.” I saw a flicker of anxiety cross Amlia’s face. “What?” I asked her.

“It’s just that you’re talking a little loudly,” she said, looking around.

“I’m just not afraid to say what everybody else is thinking,” I said. “The whole admissions process is flawed to the point of blinding idiocy. Master Kilvin knows what I’m capable of. So does Elxa Dal. Brandeur doesn’t know me from a hole in the ground. Why should he get an equal say in my tuition?”

Amlia shrugged, not meeting my eye.

I bit into another almond and quickly spit it onto the cobblestones. “Feah!” I held them out to her. “Do these taste like plums to you?”

She gave me a vaguely disgusted look, then her eyes focused on something behind me.

I turned to see Ambrose moving through the courtyard towards us. He cut a fine figure, as he always did, dressed in clean white linen, velvet, and brocade. He wore a hat with a tall white plume, and the sight of it made me unreasonably angry. Uncharacteristically, he was alone, devoid of his usual contingent of toadies and bootlickers.

“Wonderful,” I said as soon as he came within earshot. “Ambrose, your presence is the horseshit frosting on the horseshit cake that is the admissions interview process.”

Surprisingly, Ambrose smiled at this. “Ah, Kvothe. I’m pleased to see you too.”

“I met one of your previous ladyloves today,” I said. “She was dealing with the sort of profound emotional trauma I assume comes from seeing you naked.”

His expression soured a little at that, and I leaned over and spoke to Amlia in a stage whisper. “I have it on good report that not only does Ambrose have a tiny, tiny penis, but he can only become aroused when in the presence of a dead dog, a painting of the Duke of Gibea, and a shirtless galley drummer.”

Amlia’s expression was frozen.

Ambrose looked at her. “You should leave,” he said gently. “There’s no reason you should have to listen to this sort of thing.”

Amlia practically fled.

“I’ll give you that,” I said, watching her go. “Nobody can make a woman run like you.” I tipped an imaginary hat. “You could give lessons. You could teach a class.”

Ambrose just stood, nodding contentedly and watching me in an oddly proprietary way.

“That hat makes you look like you fancy young boys,” I added. “And I’ve a mind to slap it right off your head if you don’t piss off.” I looked at him. “Speaking of which, how’s the arm?”

“It’s feeling a great deal better at the moment,” he said pleasantly. He rubbed at it absentmindedly as he stood there, smiling.

I popped another almond into my mouth, then grimaced and spit it out again.

“What’s the matter?” Ambrose asked. “Don’t fancy plum?” Then, without waiting for an answer, he turned and walked away. He was smiling.

It says a great deal for my state of mind that I simply watched him go, confused. I lifted the pouch to my nose and took a deep breath. I smelled the dusty smell of the corn husk, honey, and cinnamon. Nothing at all of plum or nutmeg. How could Ambrose possibly know . . . ?

Then everything came crashing together in my head. At the same time, noon bell rang out and everyone with a tile similar to mine moved to join the long line winding through the courtyard. It was time for my admissions exam.

I left the courtyard at a dead run.

I pounded frantically on the door, out of breath from running up to the third floor of Mews. “Simmon!” I shouted. “Open this door and talk to me!”

Along the hallway doors opened and students peered out at the commotion. One of the heads peering out was Simmon’s, his sandy hair in disarray. “Kvothe?” he said. “What are you doing? That’s not even my door.”

I walked over, pushed him inside his room, and closed the door behind us. “Simmon. Ambrose drugged me. I think there’s something not right in my head, but I can’t tell what it is.”

Simmon grinned. “I’ve thought that for a . . .” He trailed off, his expression turning incredulous. “What are you doing? Don’t spit on my floor!”

“I have a strange taste in my mouth,” I explained.

“I don’t care,” he said, angry and confused. “What’s wrong with you? Were you born in a barn?”

I struck him hard across the face with the flat of my hand, sending him staggering up against the wall. “I was born in a barn, actually,” I said grimly. “Is there something wrong with that?”

Sim stood with one hand braced against the wall, the other against the reddening skin of his cheek. His expression pure astonishment. “What in God’s name is wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” I said, “but you’d do well to watch your tone. I like you well enough, but just because I don’t have a set of rich parents doesn’t mean you’re one whit better than me.” I frowned and spit again. “God that’s foul, I hate nutmeg. I have ever since I was a child.”

A sudden realization washed over Sim’s face. “The taste in your mouth,” he said. “Is it like plums and spice?”

I nodded. “It’s disgusting.”

“God’s grey ashes,” Sim said, his voice hushed in grim earnest. “Okay. You’re right. You’ve been drugged. I know what it is.” He trailed off as I turned around and started to open the door. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to go kill Ambrose,” I said. “For poisoning me.”

“It’s not a poison. It’s—” He stopped speaking abruptly, then continued in a calm, level voice. “Where did you get that knife?”

“I keep it strapped to my leg, under my pants,” I said. “For emergencies.”

Sim drew a deep breath, then let it out. “Could you give me a minute to explain before you go kill Ambrose?”

I shrugged. “Okay.”

“Would you mind sitting down while we talk?” He gestured to a chair.

I sighed and sat down. “Fine. But hurry. I’ve got admissions soon.”

Sim nodded calmly and sat on the edge of his bed, facing me. “Okay, you know when someone’s been drinking, and they get it into their head to do something stupid? And you can’t talk them out of it even though it’s obviously a bad idea?”

I laughed. “Like when you wanted to go talk to that harper girl outside the Eolian and threw up on her horse?”

He nodded. “Exactly like that. There’s something an alchemist can make that does the same thing, but it’s much more extreme.”

I shook my head. “I don’t feel drunk in the least. My head is clear as a bell.”

Sim nodded again. “It’s not like being drunk,” he said. “It’s just that one piece of it. It won’t make you dizzy or tired. It just makes it easier for a person to do something stupid.”

I thought about it for a moment. “I don’t think that’s it,” I said. “I don’t feel like I want to do anything stupid.”

“There’s one way to tell,” Sim said. “Can you think of anything right now that seems like a bad idea?”

I thought for a moment, tapping the flat of the knife’s blade idly against the edge of my boot.

“It would be a bad idea to . . .” I trailed off.

I thought for a longer moment. Sim looked at me expectantly.

“. . . to jump off the roof?” My voice curled up at the end, making it a sort of question.

Sim was quiet. He kept looking at me.

“I see the problem,” I said slowly. “I don’t seem to have any behavioral filters.”

Simmon gave a relieved smile and nodded encouragingly. “That’s it exactly. All your inhibitions have been sliced off so cleanly you can’t even tell they’re gone. But everything else is the same. You’re steady, articulate, and rational.”

“You’re patronizing me,” I said, pointing at him with the knife. “Don’t.”

He blinked. “Fair enough. Can you think of a solution to the problem?”

“Of course. I need some sort of behavioral touchstone. You’re going to need to be my compass because you still have your filters in place.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” he said. “So you’ll trust me?”

I nodded. “Except when it comes to women. You’re an idiot with women.” I picked up a glass of water from a nearby table and rinsed my mouth out with it, spitting it onto the floor.

Sim gave a shaky smile. “Fair enough. First, you can’t go kill Ambrose.”

I hesitated. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. In fact, pretty much anything you think to do with that knife is going to be a bad idea. You should give it to me.”

I shrugged and flipped it over in my palm, handing him the makeshift leather grip.

Sim seemed surprised by this, but he took hold of the knife. “Merciful Tehlu,” he said with a profound sigh, setting the knife down on the bed. “Thank you.”

“Was that an extreme case?” I asked, rinsing my mouth out again. “We should probably have some sort of ranking system. Like a ten point scale.”

“Spitting water onto my floor is a one,” he said.

“Oh,” I said. “Sorry.” I put the cup back onto his desk.

“It’s okay,” he said easily.

“Is one low or high?” I asked.

“Low,” he said. “Killing Ambrose is a ten.” He hesitated. “Maybe an eight.” He shifted in his seat. “Or a seven.”

“Really?” I said. “That much? Okay then.” I leaned forward in my seat. “You need to give me some tips for admissions. I’ve got to get back into line before too long.”

Simmon shook his head firmly. “No. That’s a really bad idea. Eight.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he said. “It is a delicate social situation. A lot of things could go wrong.”

“But if—”

Sim let out a sigh, brushing his sandy hair out of his eyes. “Am I your touchstone or not? This is going to get tedious if I have to tell you everything three times before you listen.”

I thought about it for a moment. “You’re right, especially if I’m about to do something potentially dangerous.” I looked around. “How long is this going to last?”

“No more than eight hours.” He opened his mouth to continue, then closed it.

“What?” I asked.

Sim sighed. “There might be some side effects. It’s lipid soluble, so it will hang around in your body a bit. You might experience occasional minor relapses brought about by stress, intense emotion, exercise. . . .” He gave me an apologetic look. “They’d be like little echoes of this.”

“I’ll worry about that later,” I said. I held out my hand. “Give me your admissions tile. You can go through now. I’ll take your slot.”

He spread his hands helplessly. “I’ve already gone,” he explained.

“Tehlu’s tits and teeth,” I cursed. “Fine. Go get Fela.”

He waved his hands violently in front of himself. “No. No no no. Ten.”

I laughed. “Not for that. She has a slot late on Cendling.”

“You think she’ll trade with you?”

“She’s already offered.”

Sim got to his feet. “I’ll go find her.”

“I’ll stay here,” I said.

Sim gave an enthusiastic nod and looked nervously around the room. “It’s probably safest if you don’t do anything while I’m gone,” he said as he opened the door. “Just sit on your hands until I get back.”

Sim was only gone for five minutes, which was probably for the best.

There was a knock on the door. “It’s me,” Sim’s voice came through the wood. “Is everything all right in there?”

“You know what’s strange?” I said to him through the door. “I tried to think of something funny I could do while you were gone, but I couldn’t.” I looked around at the room. “I think that means humor is rooted in social transgression. I can’t transgress because I can’t figure out what would be socially unacceptable. Everything seems the same to me.”

“You might have a point,” he said, then asked, “did you do something anyway?”

“No,” I said. “I decided to be good. Did you find Fela?”

“I did. She’s here. But before we come in, you have to promise not to do anything without asking me first. Fair?”

I laughed. “Fair enough. Just don’t make me do stupid things in front of her.”

“I promise,” Sim said. “Why don’t you sit down? Just to be safe.”

“I’m already sitting,” I said.

Sim opened the door. I could see Fela peering over his shoulder.

“Hello Fela,” I said. “I need to trade slots with you.”

“First,” Sim said. “You should put your shirt back on. That’s about a two.”

“Oh,” I said. “Sorry. I was hot.”

“You could have opened the window.”

“I thought it would be safer if I limited my interactions with external objects,” I said.

Sim raised an eyebrow. “That’s actually a really good idea. It just steered you a little wrong in this case.”

“Wow.” I heard Fela’s voice from the hallway. “Is he serious?”

“Absolutely serious,” Sim said. “Honestly? I don’t think it’s safe for you to come in.”

I tugged my shirt on. “Dressed,” I said. “I’ll even sit on my hands if it will make you feel better.” I did just that, tucking them under my legs.

Sim let Fela inside, then closed the door behind her.

“Fela, you are just gorgeous,” I said. “I would give you all the money in my purse if I could just look at you naked for two minutes. I’d give everything I own. Except my lute.”

It’s hard to say which of them blushed a deeper red. I think it was Sim.

“I wasn’t supposed to say that, was I?” I said.

“No,” Sim said. “That’s about a five.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “Women are naked in paintings. People buy paintings, don’t they? Women pose for them.”

Sim nodded. “That’s true. But still. Just sit for a moment and don’t say or do anything? Okay?”

I nodded.

“I can’t quite believe this,” Fela said, the blush fading from her cheeks. “I can’t help but think the two of you are playing some sort of elaborate joke on me.”

“I wish we were,” Simmon said. “This stuff is terribly dangerous.”

“How can he remember naked paintings and not remember you’re supposed to keep your shirt on in public?” she asked Sim, her eyes never leaving me.

“It just didn’t seem very important,” I said. “I took my shirt off when I was whipped. That was public. It seems a strange thing to get in trouble for.”

“Do you know what would happen if you tried to knife Ambrose?” Simmon asked.

I thought for a second. It was like trying to remember what you’d eaten for breakfast a month ago. “There’d be a trial, I suppose,” I said slowly, “and people would buy me drinks.”

Fela muffled a laugh behind her hand.

“How about this?” Simmon asked me. “Which is worse, stealing a pie or killing Ambrose?”

I gave it a moment’s hard thought. “A meat pie, or a fruit pie?”

“Wow,” Fela said breathlessly. “That’s . . .” She shook her head. “It almost makes my skin crawl.”

Simmon nodded. “It’s a terrifying piece of alchemy. It’s a variation of a sedative called a plum bob. You don’t even have to ingest it. It’s absorbed straight through the skin.”

Fela looked at him. “How do you know so much about it?”

Sim gave a weak smile. “Mandrag lectures about it in every alchemy class he teaches. I’ve heard the story a dozen times by now. It’s his favorite example of how alchemy can be abused. An alchemist used it to ruin the lives of several government officials in Atur about fifty years ago. He only got caught because a countess ran amok in the middle of a wedding, killed a dozen folk and—”

Sim stopped, shaking his head. “Anyway. It was bad. Bad enough that the alchemist’s mistress turned him over to the guards.”

“I hope he got what he deserved.”

“And with some to spare,” Sim said grimly. “The point is, it hits everyone a little differently. It’s not a simple lowering of inhibition. There’s an amplification of emotion. A freeing up of hidden desire combined with a strange type of selective memory, almost like a moral amnesia.”

“I don’t feel bad,” I said. “I feel pretty good, actually. But I’m worried about admissions.”

Sim gestured. “See? He remembers admissions. It’s important to him. But other things are just . . . gone.”

“Is there a cure?” Fela asked nervously. “Shouldn’t we take him to the Medica?”

Simmon looked nervous. “I don’t think so. They might try a purgative, but it’s not as if there’s a drug working through him. Alchemy doesn’t work like that. He’s under the influence of unbound principles. You can’t flush those out the way you’d try to get rid of mercury or ophalum.”

“A purgative doesn’t sound like much fun,” I added. “If my vote counts for anything.”

“And there’s a chance they might think he’s cracked under admission stress,” Sim said to Fela. “That happens to a few students every term. They’d stick him in Haven until they were sure—”

I was on my feet, my hands clenched into fists. “I’ll be cut into pieces in hell before I let them stick me in Haven,” I said, furious. “Even for an hour. Even for a minute.”

Sim blanched and took a step back, raising his hands defensively, palms out. But his voice was firm and calm. “Kvothe, I am telling you three times. Stop.”

I stopped. Fela was watching me with wide, frightened eyes.

Simmon continued firmly. “Kvothe, I am telling you three times: sit down.”

I sat.

Standing behind him, Fela looked at Simmon, surprised.

“Thank you,” Simmon said graciously, lowering his hands. “I agree. The Medica isn’t the best place for you. We can just ride this out here.”

“That sounds better to me too,” I said.

“Even if things did go smoothly at the Medica,” Simmon added. “I expect you will be more inclined to speak your mind than usual.” He gave a small, wry smile. “Secrets are the cornerstone of civilization, and I know you have a few more than most folk.”

“I don’t think I have any secrets,” I said.

Sim and Fela both burst out laughing at the same time. “I’m afraid you just proved his point,” Fela said. “I know you have at least a few.”

“So do I,” Sim said.

“You’re my touchstone,” I shrugged. Then I smiled at Fela and pulled out my purse.

Sim shook his head at me. “No no no. I’ve already told you. Seeing her naked would be the worst thing in the world right now.”

Fela’s eyes narrowed a little at that.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Are you worried I’ll tackle her to the ground and ravage her?” I laughed.

Sim looked at me. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Of course not,” I said.

He looked at Fela, then back. “Can you say why?” he asked curiously.

I thought about it. “It’s because . . .” I trailed off, then shook my head. “It . . . I just can’t. I know I can’t eat a stone or walk through a wall. It’s like that.”

I concentrated on it for a second and began to get dizzy. I put one hand over my eyes and tried to ignore the sudden vertigo. “Please tell me I’m right about that,” I asked, suddenly scared. “I can’t eat a stone, can I?”

“You’re right,” Fela said quickly. “You can’t.”

I stopped trying to rummage around the inside of my mind for answers and the odd vertigo faded.

Sim was watching me intently. “I wish I knew what that signified,” he said.

“I have a fair idea,” Fela murmured softly.

I drew the ivory admissions tile out of my purse. “I was just looking to trade,” I said. “Unless you are willing to let me see you naked.” I hefted the purse with my other hand and met Fela’s eye. “Sim says it’s wrong, but he’s an idiot with women. My head might not be screwed on quite as tightly as I’d like, but I remember that clearly.”

It was four hours before my inhibitions began to filter back, and two more before they were firmly in place. Simmon spent the entire day with me, patient as a priest, explaining that no, I shouldn’t go buy us a bottle of brand. No, I shouldn’t go kick the dog that was barking across the street. No, I shouldn’t go to Imre and look for Denna. No. Three times no.

By the time the sun went down I was back to my regular, semi-moral self. Simmon quizzed me extensively before walking me back to my room at Anker’s, where he made me swear on my mother’s milk that I wouldn’t leave my room until morning. I swore.

But all was not right with me. My emotions were still running hot, flaring up at every little thing. Worse, my memory hadn’t simply returned to normal, it was back with a vivid and uncontrollable enthusiasm.

It hadn’t been that bad when I was with Simmon. His presence was a pleasant distraction. But alone in my small garret room in Anker’s, I was at the mercy of my memory. It was as if my mind was determined to unpack and examine every sharp and painful thing I had ever seen.

You might think the worst memories were those of when my troupe was killed. Of how I came back to our camp and found everything aflame. The unnatural shapes my parents’ bodies made in the dim twilight. The smell of scorched canvas and blood and burning hair. Memories of the ones who killed them. Of the Chandrian. Of the man who spoke to me, grinning all the while. Of Cinder.

These were bad memories, but over the years I had brought them out and handled them so often there was hardly a sharp edge left to them. I remembered the pitch and timbre of Haliax’s voice as clearly as my father’s. I could easily bring to mind the face of Cinder. His perfect, smiling teeth. His white, curling hair. His eyes, black as beads of ink. His voice, full of winter’s chill, saying: Someone’s parents have been singing entirely the wrong sorts of songs.

You would think these would be the worst memories. But you would be wrong.

No. The worst memories were those of my young life. The slow roll and bump of riding in the wagon, my father holding the reins loosely. His strong hands on my shoulders, showing me how to stand on the stage so my body said proud, or sad, or shy. His fingers adjusting mine on the strings of his lute.

My mother brushing my hair. The feel of her arms around me. The perfect way my head fit into the curve of her neck. How I would sit, curled in her lap next to the fire at night, drowsy and happy and safe.

These were the worst memories. Precious and perfect. Sharp as a mouthful of broken glass. I lay in bed, clenched into a trembling knot, unable to sleep, unable to turn my mind to other things, unable to stop myself from remembering. Again. And again. And again.

Then there came a small tapping at my window. A sound so tiny I didn’t notice it until it stopped. Then I heard the window ease open behind me.

“Kvothe?” Auri said softly.

I clenched my teeth against the sobbing and lay still as I could, hoping she would think I was asleep and leave.

“Kvothe?” she called again. “I brought you—” There was a moment of silence, then she said, “Oh.”

I heard a soft sound behind me. The moonlight showed her tiny shadow on the wall as she climbed through the window. I felt the bed move as she settled onto it.

A small, cool hand brushed the side of my face.

“It’s okay,” she said quietly. “Come here.”

I began to cry quietly, and she gently uncurled the tight knot of me until my head lay in her lap. She murmured, brushing my hair away from my forehead, her hands cool against my hot face.

“I know,” she said sadly. “It’s bad sometimes, isn’t it?”

She stroked my hair gently, and it only made me cry harder. I could not remember the last time someone had touched me in a loving way.

“I know,” she said. “You have a stone in your heart, and some days it’s so heavy there is nothing to be done. But you don’t have to be alone for it. You should have come to me. I understand.”

My body clenched and suddenly the taste of plum filled my mouth again. “I miss her,” I said before I realized I was speaking. Then I bit it off before I could say anything else. I clenched my teeth and shook my head furiously, like a horse fighting its reins.

“You can say it,” Auri said gently.

I shook again, tasted plum, and suddenly the words were pouring out of me. “She said I sang before I spoke. She said when I was just a baby she had the habit of humming when she held me. Nothing like a song. Just a descending third. Just a soothing sound. Then one day she was walking me around the camp, and she heard me echo it back to her. Two octaves higher. A tiny piping third. She said it was my first song. We sang it back and forth to each other. For years.” I choked and clenched my teeth.

“You can say it,” Auri said softly. “It’s okay if you say it.”

“I’m never going to see her again,” I choked out. Then I began to cry in earnest.

“It’s okay,” Auri said softly. “I’m here. You’re safe.”