His change is so sudden I think he must have tripped until I see the blade in his hand. Then he comes at me at a run. I stumble back, but in moments his neat beard is right over me, and the knife is digging into the flesh below my left ear. My hands catch his, fighting against the blade’s tug as it tries to carve its way across my throat.

A burble of laughter comes out of the Queen’s sitting room as the door opens. Nimble like a Northside cut-throat, Black Fingers slides his blade out of my neck and into his sleeve. He’s walking coolly away, bowing to three ladies coming from the sitting room when I fall against the wall. My heart thumps in my ears. I grab at my shawl to staunch the warm stream at my throat.

The laughing women have nearly reached me, but so accustomed are they to servants hugging the walls at their approach, it’s not until they are within arm’s reach that they see who I am or what’s happened.

The nearest lady gives a mighty shriek and steps backwards, treading on the woman behind her. They fall together, cries joining the snapping of wicker skirt hoops. The third woman furiously speaks the Maker’s Prayer, an echo of Black Fingers:

Maker mine, forever of the sun’s light

Miracles be wrought from your name

Protect us sinners,

Now and at the hour of our death.

I saw a pig man at work once. He held the sow in one arm and with the other he cut across its throat. You’d never guess how much blood was in the one animal. It bled and bled in bulging pulses and then in a steady stream. I remember it took longer than I could stand and watch for it to drain. I grew tired of the sight and went on about my day. Mayhap I will die in the same fashion. Mayhap I’m doing so now. This is what comes of a sin eater speaking.

If I live, Maker mine, I pray, I will do my duty. I vow never to speak again outside the Recitations and the Eatings. I will obey.

I venture a small breath. I look down to see black blood soaking through the woad blue of my shawl. There is only one way I’ll live. I need to find a healer.

The courtyard is shadowed by evening when I stumble out of the scroll door. There’s a spike of cold where the shawl is wet with blood. A giggle comes out of my mouth, there’s so much blood. I make my way to the gate. Mayhap I’m swaying. I can’t rightly tell.